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I've never really thought myself to be a hero, or a villain at that. Nor have I ever really thought that I had the potential to save Darkwing Duck's life that night. Not even Spike, my only understood companion, could really believe that I held the duck's limp arms, as I walked through that front door.

I remember how dim his eyes had looked, so many shadows in them that it nearly shocked me at first glance. He couldn't be dead, could he? This couldn't be the new reality; Darkwing Duck lying dead in my very own greenhouse, and I was the first to know.

But then again, everything had already been morphing into a new reality within a matter of a month. No one had even seen a feather of Darkwing for that entire time, not ever since Bulba came man-hunting him down. From then point on, officers were sent out on patrols every night, the Justice Ducks scoured the streets as if it were a daily routine, and no villain dared to come out of closed doors.

It would be painful for me to say it, being a nemesis of such, but I actually felt bad for the guy. If not for him at least, then for the family he must have had back at home. Waiting day and night for news that he may have had some survival from Bulba's grasp, that maybe somehow he had escaped safely. Maybe life would give him a second chance.

Well, he had obviously managed to escape, with my help of course. Him surviving it, however, had been a completely different myth of its own origins. Spike had grumbled a slur of incoherent snorts, as I had mysteriously strewn the duck across my bed,-which wasn't much, an assortment of comfortable twigs and wet soil-and making the sleeping area perhaps a bit more tolerable to his imaginary liking. I wouldn't have thought he would notice it as much, if he was actually dead.

He was lucky I could barely recognize his face through the black, charred, burns and purple blemishes that patterned it. Bulba had already had his fun with him, and now was likely out there hunting for him again. Aside from that fact on whether or not he had actually survived, what was I to do? If he was dead and I was caught with the corpse, that would be the final line for me. But if he was alive, his hunter was still out there, with a lust for his blood. Just the thought of the predicament shook my leaves; why had I even put myself into this mess? If I had just left him in the sewers where I found him, I wouldn't even have had this kind of night.

I couldn't help to do much else but stare at the poor guy, his chest rattling as it rose and fell at steady lengths. I wasn't a medic, I was a scientist. Even if I could save his life, I wouldn't have the known knowledge to do so. In addition to that, what would the other guys think? I was already a "wimp of a villain" in their eyes, and if in any case such as this one, it was solid evidence that I began leaning into the heroism side: who in their right mind would save their arch-nemesis from the clutches of death?

Someone with a brain the size of a vegetable, apparently.

Spike was still giving me the stink eye by the time I finally casted my gaze away from the sight, a dead reminder that I needed a really good explanation. "Look, I wasn't just going to let him rot to death, okay?" The plant chomped his quarrelsome jaws with rage; he wasn't going to pass on just that note.

"I hate him as much as you do, but there's a time to be hateful and forgiving." I glanced back at Darkwing; his struggle to breathe seemed to have doubled the effort. "Besides, he let us off the hitch a few times, so I don't see a problem in just returning the favor." Spike had grumbled, but it was one in agreement, finally. He shuffled over to the body, gazing at him intensely under the dim light. He looked up at me questionably, a look I foresaw the minute I had found the courage to take action for once. "He was just laying in a sewer, ropes tied up and everything." There was no doubt that he had been some sort of hostage, and it was a matter of letting Bulba find him on his own, or dragging the body back home with me before he had the chance to. "I don't even know how he got there."

It was after one of our hang-out nights at Liquidator's place, which was obviously where pipes and water would have presented itself into a landscape. On my way back from the get together, I decided to take the long route home, just to feel the night breeze hug against my face for a few minutes longer. That's when I regretted that whim, because that was the very thing that led to me finding the duck's body laying in a puddle of water, his soul almost fractured under the slips of light from the pothole above.

It was way out of Liquidator's territory, and I already spent about thirty minutes walking alone before coming to the stop. It was either helping a fellow St. Canardian out, or living with the thought of leaving a man to die alone in a cold sewer. I would have rather risked losing my sunlight than to live with that guilt for the rest of my life. So, I dragged him the rest of the way back until I reached the surface. Then I grabbed a shopping cart from some abandoned store-nobody really took care of the cleanup for the place, after shutting it down ten years ago-along with an old blanket I found in the dumpster, and pushed him the rest of the way home like it were my groceries, in high hopes to distract attention.

I didn't know who else to tell other than Spike, and even if he was as close to a friend I would ever get, that little chomper wouldn't be much help anyhow. Nobody from the Fearsome Four had ever spoken to Negaduck after the whole power theft ordeal, and Quackerjack would lose his marbles if he found out I was helping an enemy. Megavolt likely wouldn't have given two bolts, and would just leave the problem to me to handle. I wouldn't even know how Liquidator would handle the whole occasion, he had always just seemed unpredictable in these kinds of situations.

"What do you think I should do?" Spike gave a few ruthless yaps to my response, as if it were a virus. "Well sorry, I won't ask you for help next time." I couldn't help but huff, not only in annoyance but in tight worry. I was on my own, unless I told somebody.

I looked back at Darkwing's staggering body, for all I knew it could be a matter of days before he took his final breath. If I truly intended to save his life, I would need to act quickly; standing there being dumbfounded wasn't going to get me anything but a funeral for his grave. I took another breather, and strided in a direction with full confidence on what my plan could be.

I reached the phone, and stared longingly at the dial numbers; I needed someone other than myself and a bunch of helpless plants, but who would even listen without outcasting me? The police were a definite no, unless I really wanted to go to prison. I guess there were also Darkwing's comrades, but who knew if that would be like handing myself to the police anyway? If I contacted any small shot villains, they could surely take advantage, and shout to the world that I was actually some hero, which in return could also gain unwanted attention from a blood thirsty Bulba. Finally, if I wanted Quackerjack, Megavolt, or Liquidator's help, I would need a real good alibi in convincing them to do so.

I tapped my flimsy fingers in impatient thought, and with a final look at Darkwing's shuttering face, I finally dialed a number. It was like being suffocated in the very pits of a coffin I made for myself. I gave an uneasy smile, despite the person on the other line not being able to see it. "Hey Liq, do you have a second?"

"Bulba, out of all people it had to be Bulba." Gosalyn kicked some dust in the air, ignoring Honker's coughing fit in reaction. She kept storming down the dirt path, wishing the bright summer day above her would suffocate and die. "Years of finally having a life that wasn't in the orphanage, and now I'm only going to go back!"

"Gos, you're not going back."

"I might as well be!" The little duckling did his best to keep up with the girl's pace, but her adrenaline got the best of her speed compared to his own. "Gosalyn, calm down."

"How am I supposed to, Honk!? Dad has been gone for a month, and the last person he was seen with was Bulba!"

"You're only making it worse for yourself, by getting so riled about it!" Honker pushed his glasses back on his face, after wiping the dust off from moments before; his small face squished up in a stern tone. "I know it's hard, but everybody's looking for him. Just give them some more time."

"A month should be enough time." Gosalyn slipped her school bag off her shoulder, and threw it carelessly against an old, wilting tree. She flopped herself down heavily on the patched grass, and stared at the river that sensed an illusion of carrying all of her problems away. Honker only sighed, and repeated the gesture as he sat down with her, peering over the cool, summer water. "If it makes it any better, we only have school for another week until vacation starts."

"And Dad won't ever see another one." Honker sighed in defeat of reassuring her any further, it was obvious from how pessimistic she was being. The two children sat quietly, as they watched their reflection shape and shift, dependent upon the chaotic but gentle waves of the river current. A bird sang wistfully in the distance, as bugs buzzed from the homes in the bark of the trees. It was a truly beautiful sight for such a dark day, and the only thing missing was the laughter of children.

"They'll find him, Gos." He peered up at her cold face, her eyes a duller green then the newly sprouted grass about them. "Just give them more time."

Chapter Text

"I understand there is such a thing as lending a hand to your rival business, but to sympathize with said business is a different controversy." I was shocked that the dog hadn't turned to ice at that moment, for it would have matched the mood his voice gave. Liquidator seemed to give silent death threats to Darkwing's limp body as he stood his distance at the front door. "Look, I know this all looks...bad, but I didn't know who else to tell! Liquidator, you've got to help me."

The liquid form took a minute to glance at me, and for a second I could have sworn his eyes seemed forgiving in that moment, but it hadn't lasted long. "So, your explanation is that Bulba is our biggest consumer for Darkwing?"

"What? No! He's not gonna eat him!" Liquidator casted a questionable look, swiftly after my foolish realization. "Oh, yeah, that was business talk…" The dog approached the body a little bit closer, and almost seemingly analyzed the corrupt markings bestowed upon the vigilante's face. I had an odd thought that perhaps Liquidator was jealous that he hadn't made a few of those markings himself. "Has he awoken?"

"If he had, then I wasn't there for it." Liquidator remained silent for a few more moments, at least until Spike snuck up on him for a great surprise. "Wait, careful!" As if it were a simple reflex, Liquidator created a small wave to smack my poor staggering Spike away; the plant laid there coughing and sputtering. "You'll overwater him!" The dog contorted an expression of bewilderment before realizing what he had done, while in the meantime I was tending to Spike. "You okay there buddy? He didn't mean to hurt you.."

"Is this perhaps one of your business partners?" Liquidator had momentarily forgotten about his envy and turned his attention to his accidental cause. "Yeah, he's probably one of the only friends I've got." I eyed Liquidator's reaction, to see how his face changed to the word "friend." I've always considered Liquidator like a brother myself, but I wasn't always sure if he felt the same. He was probably one of the only other guys that didn't pick on me like that crazed clown or over shocked rat. I felt an overwhelming rock of depression crush my soul when his face remained still, it didn't matter.

After grooming the wet foliage on top of Spike's head, I let him scamper free for his own doing; I wouldn't be surprised if he was actually hiding from Liquidator, the dog could be really intimidating when he wanted to be. Perhaps it was just that business trait of his. I glanced back at Darkwing, trying to think of what to say about the whole situation. "You think he'll be okay?"

Liquidator returned his cold posture as quickly as I had brought back the idea, turning to see Darkwing once more. "It's hard to predict anything before the sales have been sold." I groaned in disappointment; if even Liquidator hadn't known what to do, then what did that mean for me? "Have you considered talking to the Justice Ducks?" I choked myself in order not to laugh rudely at his question.

"Wouldn't that be like handing myself to the police?" I gave a small anxious chuckle as I spoke, despite not meaning to let it slip. "Besides, what if they don't believe me? What if they think….I did this to him?" I've learned the hard way to never expect Liquidator to act in a certain way, because most of the time he could do the shocking opposite, and it was always the reason why I found him so unpredictable. But being the fool that I am, I entirely expected him to see my way of things.

My vines went cold as Liquidator asked another question.

"What about Morgana McCawber, wasn't she a previous business partner?" To be honest, I had completely forgotten that witch ever really was a criminal, which would be hard to forget on the idea alone. She used to be one of the most feared top criminals out there, one minute she could be understanding of an error and the next her cold, authoritative, eyes could dictate your very death.

With a woman that horrifying, I never really knew what Darkwing ever saw in her. Every crook she worked with, was always dripping with pale sweat smeared across their faces after their arranged affairs were over, so to even say that she was well respected was a complete understatement. "Are you nuts? That lady is insane! Do you not remember what she did to poor Buck Tim?!" Buck Tim hadn't been much of a big-shot criminal, but he was probably one of the kindest ones I've met. I remember the excitement he had to finally be working with somebody from the top of the chain, until he came back with three eyes and a missing leg.

"But hasn't she submitted to the rival industry? If given the right chances, you could still explain yourself." I still cringed at the idea, but Liquidator also wasn't wrong. It would make sense, and Morgana was probably my best bet versus an all time hero like Gizmoduck, who would weed whip me- done, given the first five seconds he saw me. But then another thought came to me.

"Well, even if I did, Bulba is still out there. What if he finds him that way, and tracks me down if he figures that I had saved him?" Liquidator took a momentary pause, and oddly perked one of his ears in thought, staring lazily off into my growing vegetation. "Well if there's a possibility of a bad market flip, then staying low would be the best option. At least for the time being."

"But I can't keep him here, he's too likely to be seen by...well, anybody." The dog seemed to grow more and more agitated by the more questions I breathed, his harsh cold features settling into an almost solid, ironic, form. "If a business is so much trouble to deal with, then why keep it running?" I blinked at his explanation, which only seemed to provoke the dead setting more so. Liquidator glanced over at the unconscious duck, as if it hadn't already been obvious. "Why are you even helping him?"

Even at this question, I could sense Spike peeking in to see my response; I never gave one, not right away anyhow. I mean, I couldn't even answer that question myself if I tried. I wasn't just going to let somebody die, even if I did hate their guts with every second of them making my life miserable. Heck, I might even save Negaduck if I had the chance, despite him killing me in the end anyway.

I wasn't just going to let somebody suffer because they "deserved" it; no one ever deserves anything as harsh as Bulba's violence.

For a short answer, I prepared a look of co-worker disapproval and breathed a "I don't know." Liquidator's eyes turned into thinner slits, but I didn't care much for the responses he gave anymore. "I don't get how it's so hard to get it through anyone's head that I wasn't just going to let some guy rot dead in a sewer! I mean, think about it! If you were me, and saw Darkwing like this, what would you have done? Would you leave him to die? Kill him yourself? Hand him to Bulba?" For the first time that night, Liquidator didn't seem to know the answers to those dark riddles, and perhaps couldn't even keep a still face when meeting my own.

I sighed, an action that had become too much of a routine. "What if he's got a family, I mean everyone has one at some point? The little girl that follows him around, that pilot of his….I can't imagine how they must be feeling right now, especially if Darkwing were to die." I knew myself would be devastated if anything ever happened to Spike, or even the other guys from the Fearsome Four; they're about as close to a family as I can get. "Think of it this way, before you asked 'why keep a business running if it's so much trouble.' Well if you don't, how would you ever know if the business succeeds if you don't keep pushing against the limits? You could go business after business, losing thousands of dollars within a manner of months, and still end up nowhere because you never fully committed to your companies. For all I know Darkwing could save my tail someday because I saved his, and maybe one day he won't be as annoying to a point where we could even be official allies."

All I received at that point from the dog were blank stares; what was the point of the whole speel anyway, I was never a good speaker when it came to these things. It was safe to say I was a little more than shocked when I heard Liquidator's voice vibrate through the stalking shadows of my greenhouse. "I can't always see a rival's way of things.." He approached Darkwing's body for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, his back turned so I could never witness his softened expression, an expression brought to life when I shared genuine courtesy through failing businesses and annoying vigilantes. "But your reasoning is valid, sometimes it is better to push a few betting bucks on the table."

Gosalyn dreaded coming home, even as she saw the familiar house on the 537 Avian Way. It wasn't the same without her father's nagging of coming home late, or his suspicions of how early she had come for home like she was held responsible to do. Ever since Taurus's mysterious abduction of her beloved father, both Launchpad and Morgana had taken sort of shifts of watching over her. Whoever it had been, the other was likely with the Justice Ducks to find clues on where Darkwing could be. She wouldn't know who would be babysitting her today, but it didn't matter anymore. If neither of them could be there, she would just sleep with the Muddlefoots for the night.

The whole ordeal-no, the idea-of being passed around from person to person routinely had reminded her too much of the orphanage. The memories of no family actually wanting her, the feelings of being alone and unloved. Of course, this predicament included none of those memories. She knew she was still loved by the people willing to watch over her while her father was away, but she just hated having to remember how it used to feel like. Following her fit after school, she decided to sit by the river a little while longer, long enough where Honker decided to leave for home thankfully. For the entire month Drake wasn't around, she just wanted to be alone until he would magically pop up again, and tuck her in bed for a night.

But every night, as she waited for him to magically come through her bedroom door, he never came. No, per usual, it could be Launchpad telling her stories to lull her to sleep, Morgana to be the one to tuck her in, or just Honker's father to make sure she was doing alright. It wasn't the same without dad, it was never the same.

She looked up to the sky only to meet stars, happy little specks of light, laughing and singing childishly as they danced among the painted black sky. She was likely going to be questioned on what took her so long to get home, but she didn't care. Tomorrow was the weekend anyway, so maybe she could sleep in to forget the harsh reality that surrounded her. Shifting the weight of her bag as she approached the front door, she felt a familiar dread sing in her head as she turned its knob. She was greeted only with a lamp in the living room, where Launchpad dwelled in skimming over reports.

Gosalyn could only guess what those reports were about.

He hadn't noticed she entered until she flopped her school bag by the door, causing him to glance up almost in eagerness. Even in the thin lighting, anyone could tell that Launchpad had more all-nighters than shut eyes. His bright tangerine, colored, hair had turned dull and frail from the lack of leisure time. Despite his unstable condition, Launchpad still forced a seemingly genuine smile for Gosalyn; it was about the best he could do during these times of trouble. "Hey Gos, how was school?" The question mostly flew over her head, so she unmeaningly gave a shrug in response as she trudged up the stairs. Launchpad sighed, and finally left the reports to read for themselves. "Gos, come here for a minute." The young girl gritted her teeth silently, but obeyed anyway. By the time she made her way back down, Launchpad had motioned for her to take a seat next to him on their sofa. She did so, glancing to see what the pilot had been previously reading. "You haven't been taking anything lightly to the looks of it, huh kiddo?" She didn't meet his joyous eyes of deceit; how did anyone expect her to act without a parent?

She felt an arm slip around her shoulder, the hands on that shoulder tender to the touch. She thought that the rain cans could have bursted out. "I know it's been hard without your old man, but everyone is trying their everything to make sure he gets found. Heck, you and I know him more than anybody; he's gone through worse and still turned out okay in the end, hasn't he?" The very idea brought flashbacks to the first day she had met Darkwing, back when the tower exploded with both her future father and Bulba in it. She couldn't ever stop herself from crying, no matter what Launchpad did on the way back to the orphanage.

The day after the incident, it was as if all the light in her small world had wilted and died in a burning sense of darkness, right before her very innocent-lost eyes. The only person who could ever see any potential in her, the only person who seemed just to genuinely care for her was gone as quickly as he had appeared. There was no use in bothering to make friends, she would only lose them.

The same went for family.

That's what she had previously thought, before she heard that familiar voice echo through those somber halls that early morning. That was when her life truly began.

But now he was gone again, and the spirit that used to live and scream inside her had gone limp and silent; Drake was the first family to ever want her, and now it nearly felt like she had nothing. But it wasn't true, she knew it wasn't true. She had a lot of things she had been taken for granted, such as the very man sitting next to her that night, or even Honker and Tank. She still had a life to fight for, it would just be harder to do that without her father there beside her.

Throughout her silent endeavor, Launchpad watched with a slight sense of grief for the girl. In a way, it seemed he lost at least half of his own family. He spent so much time with Drake and Gosalyn that he felt as if he had become responsible for whatever happened to them. Seeing Gosalyn so devastated, and losing a best friend that was like a brother from another mother, Launchpad himself was just struggling to get by. He even had a prickling sense that Morgana wasn't handling the ordeal any better; the only person she would ever speak to anymore was Gosalyn, which was likely the person who needed it the most. On some occasions, he even caught the ghoul completely ignoring her bat familiars and Archie, as they continued to squeal something behind her that only she could understand. She never met with Launchpad's eyes unless it had something to do with Darkwing, or if he thought Gosalyn's state had begun to dwindle.

He wouldn't blame her for her silence though, he hadn't felt like talking to anyone either. On rare occasions of returning to Duckburg, he caught himself not even wishing to engage in conversation with Huey, Dewey, or Louie. He knew it must have broken their young hearts to some degree, but how was he supposed to talk to them while his own was broken too? Scrooge seemed to have caught onto Launchpad's reaction to Darkwing Duck's abduction, and made sure that he had plenty of space as possible.

He glanced at the television, sitting lazily with a black screen that seemed to set a tempo for a whole new beat. His head ringed with an idea, and the pilot got up to carry back something. Gosalyn was snapped out of her own trance of skimming the reports of her father still not being traceable, and curiosity killed her as to what Launchpad was going after. Under the dim lamp light, he held up two separate gaming controllers; he gave another tired smile, hoping to not only lift her spirits, but perhaps his own. "I know it's been awhile, but how about some Whiffle Boy? For old time sake."

For the first time in an entire month, Gosalyn hid a cracked smile.

I was shocked when I wasn't killed where I had stood, as I watched the joker's usual jolly face of tone morph into one of a fanatical. His eyes turned to the blackest of coals, and to me it was always horrifying whenever Quackerjack frowned. Megavolt seemed a bit off-balance at first, but then physically came to a conclusion there was a good explanation; Liquidator and I had been standing side by side over Darkwing Duck's unconscious body. I glanced at him to see if he wished to start, but instead the dog patiently waited for my explanation of the circumstance. "Um...it kinda...looks bad, I know."

"I thought Bulba killed him, and then you saved him!?" All the toy maker could see was a bull red, eyeing me as if he wished to feed me through some sort of compactor. Thankfully, this was when Liquidator butted in to save the day. "Bushroot explained that he didn't necessarily go out of his way to get to Dimwing, but found him among the outskirts of my sewers." Even with that reasoning, it still didn't change the psychotic, murderous, stance Quackerjack seemed to radiate off. "He found him lying unconscious, and decided it was best to take him here before Taurus Bulba had the chance to come back for him."

"Why!? Let him die! You're helping an enemy of an enemy!" I had never seen Quackerjack so outraged in the time I had known him for, and I had a slight guess that Liquidator and Megavolt seemed both equally concerned. "I mean, he is sorta right; why bother, it wouldn't be our problem?" Megavolt couldn't help but to back up one of his comrades, still eyeing Darkwing with slight variability. My head had begun to pound, so many questions with not enough answers that I had given. I still didn't know the real reason why I had the sudden urge to save Darkwing, it just felt as though it were a moral thing for anyone to do.

"It may help us in future business affairs. For example, hasn't this annoyance saved our bankrupt hides?" Liquidator had asserted another formation of solitary dominance, challenging Quackerjack's own of the group. Ever since we unspokenly junked Negaduck out of our affairs, both Liquidator and Quackerjack have always had a silent battle on who would lead. It was obvious from how many times they've glared daggers at the back of each other's heads, or for how often they've always nitpicked with the other over the smallest of things. For most of those times, Megavolt and I just chose to stay out of the conflict; this time had been no different.

Quackerjack's teeth had gritted so hard that I was positive a tooth may have snapped; here came another dog fight that had lasted for too many weeks. "He's a hero, he's supposed to save hides, no matter who they are. We aren't heroes! Why should we give a Dill about what happens to him!?" The psychotic man pulled out his makeshift banana doll, who's eyes could drill themselves into a child's soul. He moved a few of the limbs as if the toy had been alarmingly alive. "That's the truth, Duke!"

"What kind of mentality is that!?" I just couldn't help myself; every word that Whiffle Boy hater spat out just made me wish I could smack him with a thorn. After my comeback, Quackerjack turned back to growl at me, his eyes had been too savage to be a crazed wolf's. "Not everything is just some role to play out, that's like saying you won't take care of a sick baby because you aren't the parent!"

"And just why are you standing up for him!? You're no better than Negaduck, you're just much of a traitor as he is!"

"And you're just as sick in the skull!"

"What to do to answer a controversy? Having trouble getting along with comrades? How about stop bickering like toy store children!" The transparent dog nearly had to scream his slogan over our argument, causing everyone to snap their attention to the sound of rolling pebbles. Liquidator sighed in a similar feeling of grief, rubbing the throbbing pain in between his eyes.

Without Quackerjack's seeming knowledge, Mr. Banana Brain had piped up after the commotion ended. "Sorry Charlie!" The toy maker nearly strangled his own hand, hissing at the toy that only he made speak. "Oh would you just shut up?"

"If we wish for this transaction to be successful, we need to know who will be allies and who will be competitors." After his last few lines, Liquidator looked more directly at Quackerjack, much to either of the men's disgust. Another few moments of awkward silence, and Megavolt finally broke in. "So what, is this a vote?"

"Those who wish for the moral values of an economy, and believe it will benefit low-time crimes in the future, call now!" I immediately raised my hand, which was something I had immediately regretted doing. Megavolt still looked as if he were unsure about something, while Quackerjack was about ready to pounce and murder me the second I turned my back. To help build my confidence, Liquidator raised his own hand, now eyeing the two non-voters.

Quackerjack met cold eyes with Megavolt, who merely gave a shrug. "You better stay on my side Sparky, if you know what's coming to you.''Megavolt scrunched his face at the tease name, and immediately raised his hand afterward. "Then I won't, just because you called me Sparky." Quackerjack nearly bursted into flames; it was everyone but him now. "Well, comrade?" Liquidator gave a small smirk at Quackerjack's lack of authority, awaiting for his devastating reply.

The toy maker hugged his banana doll like his only love in the world, and left the greenhouse that cold night.

Chapter Text

Fenton always had sleeping problems; it was predictable when one had to work two jobs by both day and night. But ever since Darkwing's mysterious disappearance, the duck could bet that he likely lost even more of it. Having to juggle both the Justice Ducks and his normal duties on a day to day basis was just exhausting, he never could figure out how Darkwing always did it.

It was an unspoken decision that Darkwing always took the leading head of the team, despite how much Gizmoduck always took the bragging rights for it. The team only ever came together on rare occasions, and that was usually unwillingly a decision made by S.H.U.S.H. However, he always had to guess that Darkwing had to be the one to schedule for all the team members to meet, let alone actually find and contact half of them.

Boy did he take the duck for granted, because now all those responsibilities laid upon him. He had to schedule a meeting place for the Justice Ducks at least once a week to figure out Darkwing's missing case, and usually at least one of them couldn't be there. Neptunia was sometimes too busy with her "non-surface dweller" issues, while Launchpad and Morgana had to make sure Gosalyn, his little gizmo buddy, was well cared for. On some days, the only person who ever came was Stegmutt.

It was a major underplay to say that his job had become much more stressful without Darkwing Duck. Not only that, but he actually kind of missed the guy. Sure they may have had their differences, but in those rare moments that the two egos put their heads together, it was like a new friendship had blossomed. Even if Gizmoduck wouldn't ever do it, Fenton would admit plainly that he did cry some nights after Darkwing's abduction.

He stared dimly at the maps scattered about the small table in his room, which hadn't been much considering he still lived in a trailer with his own mother. The red, blue, and black lines had all seemed to mesh together now, as the white background of the paper seemed to blind him the minute he merely glanced at it. His small tin can had been overflowed with microwave tv dinners and plastic coffee cups.

"Gandra called." Fenton looked up in bafflement to see his mother leaning against the door frame; compared to even her, he still looked more of a mess, and that was being compared to someone who sat on the couch for most of her life. However, his eyes did light up for the first time in about a thousand years. "She did?"

"She's wondering if you're still working, quote on quote, overtime." The word itself sent cold iceberg winds down his spine, causing him to glance back at the meshing maps. "I guess if you put it that way."

"Fenton, you're hurting the poor girl. Just pull your darn pants up and tell her."

"I can't M'ma, and you know why."

"Well then at this point, you might as well call yourself single." It felt as if Fenton had been stabbed with the sharpest blade of the universe, straight into his very spine that trickled with a pale cold. He met his mother's eyes, which had quickly morphed from being ruthless to affectionate; it was one of the only ways to finally snap his attention. "I think you're digging yourself too much into that Dunkwhim mess."

"It's Darkwing, M'ma."

"Oh whatever, you still get my point."

Fenton breathed a silent breath, he knew his mother hadn't been wrong, but what else was he supposed to do? Sit idly by while someone he had known out there could be in great danger this very minute? "You never see the people he's close with, everyone's been in grief since he's been gone. I don't know what else to do, the Justice Ducks all depend on me for guidance now." Fenton ran shuddering fingers through his unkempt hair, exhausted as he stared at the pencil that seemed to mock his own potential. "And Mr. McDuck hasn't been very patient with anything either since I have to travel all the way to St. Canard more often."

"Then tell the fool to give you a break, or I'll come over there and say it myself!"

"Alright alright, just give me the chance to actually talk to him then." Fenton did his best to push his mother back into the corners of the trailer's worries. He remembered back in school when his mother came in, nearly everyday, to scare off any pickers who would nitpick with her son, which was even hard to believe it was something she used to do now. The point was, Ms. Crackshell could be tried over the edge if someone were to push hard enough, it's how even Fenton himself convinced her to get off the television to spend some time with him.

"Fenton, you're worrying me sick getting caught up in all of this." The duck tossed the crumbled papers over the desk, much like what was left of his sanity. "Then what do you expect me to do!? Without Darkwing Duck, I have to be caught up in this or else St. Canard goes to-...ugh." He couldn't even finish his exhausted sentence. Even the thought of breathing was just treading into the darkest places of his mind. His eyes suddenly seemed fifty years older, feeling the soreness across the body he never knew was there before, it was as if a giant rock had burdened itself onto him and refused to ever let him go. "I don't know what to do, M'ma."

He felt her presence grow near him, and felt the tingling sensation that she might have begun rubbing his shoulder for some relief to his aches not only physically, but with the mental obstacles he was forced to face. Although Ms. Crackshell could never make those obstacles disappear, she could still be there when he failed those challenges, the challenges that could dictate his own self-worth. "Go and call Gandra, ever since this whole thing started you've hardly talked to her. Besides, it might be for the better right now."

"But what about-"

"Just go do it." Fenton met with her imposing gaze, and finally thought it best that he wasn't in the mood for a verbal argument. He did miss spending time with Gandra dearly, and he could only imagine all the angry questions she had with repressed answers he would cover up with make-shift lies. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, and got up to get to the telephone in the other room. "And Fenton.."

Her son turned back to meet her somberly, causing the lonely mother's ache to a slight point inside. "You aren't the only superhero in the world, there's other people who guard the city for a reason; it wouldn't be worth downing your life over a place you don't even live in." She awaited to see his response, but it became a normal routine that no matter what she said, Fenton always seemed to anticipate it. He merely nodded and continued to the telephone.

She groaned in silent aggravation, glaring at the tainted papers of maps and documents her only son had obsessed over. The papers that obscured his life, the papers that obscured her life. The blue, red, and black lines were pathways to misery, and agony. A path not a soul should be allowed through.

She couldn't allow her son to lose himself any longer. She grabbed the maps and shoved them into a nearby garbage bag; she'd hide the bag a little later, to avoid any suspicion. The minute she heard Fenton leave the trailer, she sighed a sound of joy.

These maps could be the death of him.

Chapter Text

She hated those cold nights, when the wind howled in the absence of grieving ghosts. She longed for his touch, for him to pop up at her door with that stupid grin on his beak. To see his life extinguish the death fermented within her home. To witness his fresh face under moonlight that his features always, somehow, transformed into sun. To watch him interrogate his daughter to bed, to feel his drowsy snores against her as she watched the black figures of trees crane under the night, through the small bedroom window.

She missed the way he tried catching his hat when he ran in the wind, or even when he obnoxiously hit a stop sign trying to hunt down a crime. She missed the way he rambled himself into their unpredictable arguments, and even at times missed the nights she questioned if Darkwing had been worth the man.

She always knew he was in the end.

No man had ever looked as devastated when he realized the hurt he caused her, even through methods of trying to light his tail feathers on fire. Behind the shock of fear he was presumed to mimic, she always caught a glimpse of pain behind those eyes. That he had come to a conclusion to what he committed, and would do anything to save her from his mindless insults. It was a type of love not even Morgana's father could master honestly.

No man ever saw anything past her first appearances, but Darkwing always sliced through those facades like a butcher blade. He saw what was chained, celled, and buried, and became enraptured by it anyway. Overtime, he never saw Morgana for her face, but what was silhouetted under the surface.

No man ever loved her the way he had, in his unusual ways.

But now he was gone.

It was hard enough for her to swallow the grief with a smile, but it was a whole new challenge to make sure Gosalyn even attempted to. She tried many things to try to keep the young girl distracted, distracted from the problems that could devour her young soul in a single gnash.

The child seemed to acknowledge her pointless efforts, and tried her own best to meet with her satisfaction. Morgana never asked for it, but there wasn't as much she could do about it. One of the seeming favorites Gosalyn had was listening to scary myths or Morgana casting a few simple spells.

In those moments, Gosalyn's silent eyes seemed to light up a whole new world with a starving interest. The witch now knew why Dark had always been so fond of the child; Darkwing's emotions seemingly became the ghoul's own. Day after day, she only ever wanted to make sure Gosalyn was in the best spirit she could possibly be. If it were clear that Gosalyn hadn't found a purpose, the world would have crashed down with the girl.

But one night had completely stolen Morgana's own heart.

Launchpad had been away at S.H.U.S.H headquarters, and the rest of the team would be awaiting her arrival; J. Gander Hooter had finally called for the Justice Ducks, aside from the missing Darkwing Duck, for a small meeting concerning the city's well being without the vigilante's presence. It felt as if the only thing they had been doing throughout the whole mental crisis was just sitting around talking, without actually going out there to find the duck who's life was at risk. But as always, Morgana couldn't do much about that either; Gizmoduck had taken Dark's absent role, and even he seemed to not know half the things he was doing.

Gosalyn knew of the meeting, but it was issued to certain individuals only. Taking a slight precaution on the girl still following her to the headquarters late at night, she informed Eek and Squeak to keep her from doing so; Archie would be at Gosalyn's side for moral support, and hopefully would comfort her enough to sleep that late night.

But as the late-night ghoul tucked her in her guest bedroom that night, and made her way to the exit, she felt her very being rattle. "I love you, Morgana." She turned back to lock Gosalyn's gaze, who's own features seemed to be genuine under the thin, crisp, moonlight. In blunt honesty, she never fully knew how Gosalyn ever saw her, but she highly doubted it would ever be any sort of mother.

However, in that moment when she saw Gosalyn's loving face that only a daughter could share, Morgana began to even doubt that Gosalyn hadn't seen her as a mother; the very idea brought flutters to her soul that she never knew had been waiting.

If only Dark could be there to witness it.

She tried not to get herself distracted by the entire loving encounter as she made her way to her destination, while checking one last time that Gosalyn could sleep soundly for the night. As she made her way under the ridiculing stars and a detrimental moon, she felt the aches and pains from the absence of the very man who was supposed to protect this empty city. His own good will was what had lead him into the clutches of Bulba, and the very thought made her want to bite, tear, and murder at the villain who had her Dark. It was one thing if someone could merely be a criminal, but it was a whole different story when someone intended harm on someone doing so much good.

She remembered the stories Dark used to tell about Bulba, which hadn't happened often. The only time he's ever really mentioned the man was when he was explaining the story of how he met Gosalyn; as heartwarming as it seemed to sound, she sensed that Bulba still sent cold blood rivers through Dark's body. She promised herself in those moments that no matter what had happened, she'd defend him against the very man. It was the least she could do, Dark had already been protecting so much, yet so little for his own safety.

Now all she was left with was a dying heart and a broken promise.

Morgana finally started to see the silhouette of the headquarters destination. Its illumination should have made St. Canard beautiful, but instead it only made it look dead and rotting. After being ushered in by security, she silently entered the room where bickering had already started to take place.

The first face she had seen was a vacant expression discovered on Stegmutt, which seemed as if a true nightmare on its own; the dinosaur had always been so bright and hopeful, and to see him in such a reality driven state brought terror among any individual. The next she had seen was the dangerous looks between Gizmoduck and Launchpad; she pinpointed this must have been the cause of the distant bickering that bounced off the lonely hallways.

"We can't be sittin' around while DW needs our help!"

"I know that, but does it look like I can do anything about it!? I wasn't necessarily asked to be a leader either!" It was clear where the conversation had been steering itself, so the ghoul had chosen to follow Stegmutt's stance and remain silent. "Well gee, that's a shock, because last I remembered you wanted Darkwing's spotlight!" Launchpad glared silently at the competitor, feeling his chest bloom with pride.

Gizmoduck in result felt his very being get torn out of existence and thrown inside a black hole. "What are you trying to convince."

"That maybe Bulba wasn't the one who took him, maybe it was your jealous sack of-"

"Gentlemen, settle down please! This is no time for childish arguing!" Everyone's head snapped to an entering Gander's attention, who had adjusted his glasses blossomed into uneasiness from the reaction. He cleared his throat to continue his gentle scolding. "I did not call everyone here to point fingers, I-where is Neptunia?" J. Gander stopped mid-sentence as he peered around the room, realizing there had been even less members than he imagined.

"I apologize sir, but it was impossible to contact her. Our letters, emails, or phone calls can't reach underwater." A small employee spoke out from the ruckus, as if he had anticipated his authority's confusion. J. Gander blew through his teeth, ringing a rough but silent whistle, and gave a slight nod for him to leave. "Very well, thank you for the update." After the small encounter, everyone had still remained silent for him to finish; Morgana honestly could not think of another reason to call for a pointless meeting. In a way, she felt a small tint of jealousy surge at the thought of Neptunia skipping out again.

"I suppose this is enough." The small old duck started pulling out a few files, and rested them on a table with a scent of, what could only be described as, strong detergent and bleach. The blinding lights above could remind anyone of an empty grocery store, except that a store had the absence of the grave faces currently present in that room. "What's the emergency for J. Gander? I didn't request a meeting?" Gizmoduck couldn't help but still defend himself, especially after his lethal encounter with Launchpad. He glanced at the duck as if to be sure the pilot had given silent approval, but he seemed to have forgotten him altogether; his eyes were too glued to the files with the invisible blood stains of misery.

"I am aware. I called this meeting after a certain….discovery. I firmly had a suspicion that all of you would wish to be aware, as it connects to Darkwing." Morgana felt her heart burst silently of glee; an entire month of agony, and something was finally dug up on her poor Dark. Everyone else in the room seemed to have a similar reaction: a spark color had finally fleshed across Launchpad's grim face, Gizmoduck's beak loosened as his dim eyes lit up with hope under his helmet, and Stegmutt had finally returned to his cherished self. However, J. Gander didn't seem to be the least of an optimist.

"It isn't very good news."

"Good news or not, you better tell us." The giant duck in the tin suit had snapped coldly, despite his desperate intentions. Morgana could only imagine how fed up he must have been with the whole affair, despite his poor leadership, it was likely still hard on him to even lead without Dark around to fight with him on it. She had an eerie feeling that it was the secret way the two would always get along, just by simply forking at each other who was the better hero.

"We believe we have located the spot of the crime, a place Darkwing may have been encountered by Tauruas Bulba, and perhaps even kidnapped." The room was stiller than a Christmas night, and an unspoken rush of cold swept through every single team member. "You mean we finally have a lead?" Despite the grave circumstances, the ghoul sensed that Gizmoduck's rough voice had given a transparent pipe of hope, the kind of content hope that slid under a beak. Gander smiled grimly at the response, and with precise organization, spread out the files from the small folder. "Bulba was able to find out more information on Darkwing than he should have known."

Launchpad's gaze slipped into one of edging panic, as he tried to read the small print from afar. "What do you mean?" Gander slid the files closer, biting his tongue as if it were poisonous enough to kill a healthy horse. Launchpad nearly couldn't believe he was still breathing as he picked up a stack of papers:

This was the best I could dig up on the guy. I expect a diggin 'raise out of this.

Darkwing Duck: civilian Drake Mallard. Don't know current location, but he's been known to hide out near the Audubon Bridge every so often. He's been working this gig since high school, where he faced off with Megavolt (previously known as Elmo Sputterspark, might want to look into him for some info).

Other connections are: Jambalaya Jake's Gator (I couldn't find the real guy, he busted out of prison), Steelbeak (good contact with the agency he works for), Negaduck (also busted out of prison).

I tried scavenging what I could about his life growing up, but his records are wiped clean from the public. After some spy work, he still lives with that girl you mentioned and a pilot that used to work for a billionaire back in Duckburg. He's also one of the founders of the Justice Ducks, and has plenty of connections with the agency S.H.U.S.H.

That's all I got. If you want me to keep sticking my neck out, then like I said before, give me that raise.

JM

Launchpad's manner had been stirred into gruesome murder within the blink of an eye, shooting an accusing gaze toward the old duck. "Who the heck wrote this, and how did you even get your filthy hands on it!?"

"Well, what is it?" Gizmoduck caressed out a grabbing arm for the evidence profiles, but the pilot snapped it out of his reach with eyes of poison. "Oh no, you're not getting this." The metal suit of armor seemed about snuffed up himself, straining his beak into stress lines. "And why not?"

"Because this thing's got everything on DW, things you shouldn't even know about." Launchpad folded the paper into his hand, much to Gander's distress at preserving it, snaking his arms away from a potential thief. Gizmoduck hadn't even seemed bothered by it, if he wasn't already bothered by the lack of trust.

Morgana had been gouging marks into her arm with thought, until the burning sensation settled in. She winced, glancing at the clawed scratches she had made against her once smooth skin. When she glanced back up, she met the bleak gaze of Stegmutt. His eyes had rounded. His claws shook with the familiar urge to aid someone in need. His face was dead set on the arm Morgana now covered with a hand. When he caught her look, his mouth frowned into submission.

The ghoul looked away, focusing back at the main event. As long as there was silence, there would be no problems.

After the counseled death match between the tin suit and pilot, Launchpad resumed his manner upon Gander's tired state. "Who's JM?"

Gander smirked under the tension, glooming up at his upstander. Tapping his short, bony fingers against a polished table, he finally replied. "Why do you think I've called you all here?"

Chapter Text

I hadn't known what to do as he rustled into the conscious world. Should I have told the others or just hoped that he didn't wake up? But if he never awoke, then what if he really was dead? But if he did wake up, I'd only be basically wishing he was dead. This was why I never wished to be caught up in anything; too many odd questions with too many hard-to-notice answers. I questioned whether or not this was even all worth it, and I never quite liked the answer to that one either.

My body pounded with a sleeping pity as Darkwing groaned his aches, his chest collapsing for breath. I took a few brushed steps back, (the steps sort of reminded me of a shy dancer, but that's besides the point) hoping at least if he did awaken, he wouldn't see me instantaneously. Darkwing continued to stir in his fit of stabbing burns, his tongue too swollen to utter a mumble. He kept bemoaning. Seeing someone in such a distress made me wish I could do more, but being the dumb vegtable I was, instead I just delayed for the whole thing to be over.

I did see his eyes flutter open a bit, but not for long. The only thing I was able to catch in them was a beg for charity, that the agony would pass over like a needle would for a child. After they closed, the next ten minutes continued with just the vilignate's quiet murmurs and the creaking of his body. I couldn't take it anymore.

I left the room momentarily, and came back with a glass of room temperature water. With the edging precaution and stealth of my small trembling leaves, I loomed over the poor soul. I mentally scolded myself the words Quackerjack had once spoken to me, as I carefully lifted Darkwing's head in a position where he wouldn't choke on the drink.

Maybe the crazed toy maker wasn't that crazy for once, maybe I was the psychopath. Helping my arch-nemesis who sent me to the slammer more times than I could chew my soil. The duck's eyes fluttered open once more, but this time from the shock of gagging and retching. It caused me to spill water all over the burns on his chest. It apparently singed him enough to settle back down, and gave me the time to reposture myself accordingly. "If you keep moving like that, you're only going to make it worse. It's just water."

Helplessly, I cautioned the glass to his beak again, this time waiting for him to receive it. His eyes seemed uncoordinated, the pupils didn't even match in size as they continued to dilate at their own patterns. It made me wonder if the guy didn't have a head injury I didn't know about. When I thought he was ready enough for another go, I tried again, and this time he seemed to beg for it.

"I don't even know why I'm doing this. Maybe I should have left him to die." I mumbled under my breath, hoping at least Darkwing was too junked out to hear the last part. After he seemed to be done, I laid the glass aside. He seemed close enough to swooning again, but to my suprise, never really did. His eyelids enslaved themselves to open if they got too droopy, and his breathing became thicker than salt in an ocean. There had been bubbled burns strewn across his beak as if it were a design strung into a carpet. Half of the said beak had been charred black and showed little bits of open flesh. The same side of his face had also seemed burned off, and had lost most of its previous feathers.

I glanced at the hand closest to me and noticed the markings on it as well, but not from burns. Bruises that had been more blue than purple, along with uneven scars to match. I just couldn't imagine the kind of pain he was going through at the time, nor did I think of anything to do in order to help.

It had been a few days since my conflict encounter with the other guys, but not enough days had passed to cool any tensions that had risen from it. Not one of us had heard a word from Quackerjack since the night he stormed off, and Megavolt seemed to pay more to his own mind than to anyone else's; Liquidator had yet to show again. So much for reaching out to anyone.

But speaking of the sun that dried my healthy leaves, I heard someone entering through my greenhouse doors, along with the sound of, what only could be, Megavolt murmuring whines and complaints upon arriving. I gave back one harrowing glance at Darkwing's staggering body, and thought best just to leave him be for a time. I was met with a dog who's posture matched that of a murderous governor. Next to him, was an impractical, rodent nuisance. Liquidator's stone face wavered loose as his eyes found me, but Megavolt hadn't been in much of an agreement. "Hey guys, what's going on?"

"Ask Fountain Boy, he dragged me here during my girl talk with the lady lamps." I held back the urge to roll my eyes; I've learned over the years not to question Megavolt's habits, in order to get the easiest interactions with him. Liquidator lifted a finger, threatening to touch the rat. Almost immediately, Megavolt snared a growl and buckled down.

Man did I love that guy.

"As in our previous board meeting, you've expressed your concerns of keeping our special customer under the dark. We've come to discuss the matter."

"You mean you have."

"Feeling a bit dry? Try to tempt the Liquidator, and rest assured you won't be." Megavolt grumbled in response.

"You mean you found hideouts?" I couldn't set back my impatient tendencies. So many sleepless nights of staring out my windows, imagining Bulba ready to bust down my walls at any breathing hour. Liquidator perked his ears in a skirmish pride. "As a temporary assortment of course. For these sales would only be for rent."

I blinked for a moment. "Wait, I'm paying?"

"He means their temporary hide-outs, melon head."

"Well, you didn't have to be rude about it." Liquidator cleared his throat, averting the conversation into his own steering. "I've seen you've moved our delicate customer?" I started to feel myself go pale, I had moved Darkwing into another room in the first few hours he had been groaning and moving. Afterward had been where he had started to awaken. I didn't know whether or not to slip that story though, without the critical looks of the only people I could depend on.

"Uh..yeah, I thought I would make him more comfortable. Have either of you heard from Quackerjack at all?" I hoped to divert the discussion, at least for the minutes of stalling I would waste not coming up with a good alibi. "Me and him haven't talked much." Megavolt shrugged off the words that splattered on his tongue, like an amatuer ringing a pistol. Liquidator gave a silent smirk at the mention of him; those two obviously still hadn't made amends from the last encounter. I rubbed my aching neck, hoping I could rip out all of my anxieties from the very touch.

"Something did kind of happen with Darkwing." I instantly felt their pressuring stares. "He sorta...started to wake up." Liquidator recovered his ears back to his head, his muzzle drooping in a baffle, while I had instantly snapped all of Megavolt's attention. "He did?"

"I mean he's out of it, like really out of it. But he was awake enough that he could drink a little." The dog and rat exchanged odd glances, the kind of glances that could speak an ultimate language above any other. Liquidator drew closer, his eyes seeming almost vague. "Shall we proceed then?" Intellectually kicking myself in the gut and holding my breath for the best, I perseveringly nodded and led the trail.

By the time we approached, Darkwing still had his eyes closed, but still continued his low groans of the burns and bruises that possessed him like a growing virus. Liquidator paused subtly at where he stood in the doorway, while Megavolt continued until he had reached the bedside. I eyed him carefully, imagining a smiling, sick, jester peering over the duck with blood lust glazing in his eyes.

But Megavolt seemed to pay more attention to his arm than to his dying state, so much so that it instilled a crystal curiosity inside my own mind. "I mean, I always thought his face got the worst beatings."

"That's not what I'm looking at." After his response, the rat took Darkwing's arm in more of a rough manner than to my liking, (if I had any left) and glared piercingly at something neither me nor Liquidator could see. Finally, he pointed a gloved finger at a rather precise location on the duck's limp arm. "Was this ever here before?" I approached until I could see where Megavolt had been pointing, with Liquidator right on my tail.

A small device sprouted under Darkwing's slashed feathers, as if it had been implanted there with purpose. A barely noticeable green light blinked from the center of the circular device, and deemed substantial. I could hardly believe my own eyes, how had I missed this for so long? "What the heck is that?"

"Are you sure you didn't have a purser on your trail?" I glanced up momentarily at Liquidator, still in a blow that there was even anything in Darkwing's arm. "No, not that I know of."

"It wouldn't mean anything even if there was someone; by the looks of it, whoever did it had done it through a surgery. It's completely implanted, no one could just pluck it on him." Megavolt seemed to be lost inside of his own reality as he slipped the words through the coarse air, being delicately mesmerized by the very device itself. As if nothing like it could have ever mattered more to him.

"What purpose does it serve, and who implanted it?" Megavolt locked a gaze with Liquidator, answering his question with the blunt of demise. "It's a tracking device; take a wild guess."

Chapter Text

"My question is how he even got the dip on Wingy in the first place." Gizmoduck's head had been downing into a whirl; even if Fenton reached to claw at the back of his memories, nothing would surface the name JM. His first occurring thought had been to check records that could match with the anonymous, suggesting that non-ethical professionals would just hand over their patient's documents at the click of a dime. Even if it had been for the sake of justice, even police officers needed to get by on search warrants.

"The guy obviously did some spy work ahead of time. Launchpad, have you noticed any of the sort?" The pilot either had volunteered to be deaf, or truly didn't value the idea that Gizmoduck manufactured together. He gloomed near an opening, where the wind grew bitter and sour at taste. He was staring in the direction of the sun that had vanished long ago. Gizmoduck swallowed a gag that had formed at the back of his tongue. "Launchpad?"

"What does Bulba want with DW anyway? I mean, if anything, I would've thought he'd kill him already; I don't get why he abducted him when he had the chance to strike DW where he stood." The salty air morphed into a revolting sense.

"Perhaps he has bigger plans…in some way." Gizmoduck neglected the stare Stegmutt had pleaded him, anchoring onto his every word. One wrong word, one wrong syllable, one wrong breath and he could shatter a castle made of glass. Gizmoduck couldn't help but to reminiscent the last time he ever saw Darkwing, the encounter had seemed like ages ago:

"Why are you in my city Mr. Bigshot?" The lavender caped vigilante wore a look of juvenile jealousy, his eyes a pair of slicing daggers, as they pierced through the casted shadows made by his fedora. Gizmoduck had otherwise taken pleasure in the entire encounter. "Business for McDuck is all, how are you holding up these days, Wingy?"

"Wonderfully, until you showed up."

"Oh don't be like that pal!"

"And don't call me pal."

"Brother? Comrad? Buddy?" He nearly held back a roar as Darkwing stormed off behind him. The flash of his cape, suffocated by its old color of wear, being the last blessing Gizmoduck had witnessed.

Gizmoduck rued that ridiculing encounter; how could he have prophesied that it would be the last time anyone ever caught a whiff of Darkwing? No one could often tell the future, and even if possible, in almost every myth, they failed to change the outcome to something remotely better. Now glaring back at the memory, he had noticed that perhaps Darkwing even portrayed strange behavior on his own behalf; his scowls seemed to be ones of pure annoyance rather than their signature envy glares.

Yet, not all was lost. The train of thought had found a stopping station, a light flickering dead at the end of a deafening tunnel.

"What if we tried to source back the last place he was known to be at?" Gizmoduck glanced around the room, gripping to intense assumptions that someone would grasp onto the idea. Stegmutt seemed almost unheeding at the question, as the ghastly presence of Neptunia still lingered in the room. Gizmoduck had always tried his best in not looking at Morgana for too long, despite his intentions; her eyes always had a way of choking him to death every night in his dreams, and it eventually led him to the conclusion that Darkwing had always been the one to crack and cram his way behind those eyes. The rest finally laid upon Launchpad, who glanced away at the pondering thought.

Unlike most meetings, this particular late-night gather was held in the Darkwing Tower itself; Gizmoduck never really gave an explanation on why Darkwing's lair, (or what was left of it, as many of his shelves began to creak from unused aging, while chemistry sets and cork boards had attracted dust bunnies from miles away) had been the pinpoint location for the investigation. Fenton himself couldn't help but wonder if he just felt connected to the place somehow; it had been, after all, where the Justice Ducks first borne. But the team or place was never the same without "him."

Launchpad's eyes had casted onto those same spotty chemistry tools and boards, giving off small hints with the height of his eye lids and the twitches of the corners of his mouth, that he had remembered a time when these ancient relics weren't neglected. Small hints of a cracked soul, and empty eyes. Small hints that the pilot had sucked dry all of his hope like a vampire.

"Wasn't this the last place?" The pilot still kept his eyes steered away; the thin, crisp voice sliced through the thick air. Gizmoduck twitched a grin he had to painfully force, trying to not let doubt tread his mind; if he was going to be a leader, he needed to be stronger for the team. "It's a start, isn't it? Think about it, fellow comrades! Perhaps the police force might have missed a few clues, and what group of individuals know him better than us?" Out of the corner of his eye, the duck saw Stegmutt shuffle up a little bit, while he felt an intense gaze from the witch across from him; Launchpad's eyes still refused to enter into the party.

Gizmoduck approached him, laying a heavy armored hand on the pilot's shoulder, finally causing his chilling look to spike up. "It's always better than not doing anything, don't you agree, old friend?" Fenton knew Launchpad didn't know what was behind the suit, but knowing that his best friend was suffering the loss of another friend was enough to encourage Gizmoduck to break out of character. As anticipated, the pilot gloomed a stare that suggested the threat of an abnormal stranger, a father's hand touching his child for the first time. It was a hand the child had never witnessed before, as it cried for its significant mother, a being that hadn't threatened to grasp it into the world outside of the hospital. Gizmoduck exhibited a trusted harmony, but with a mask that walled his face, Launchpad could not share the same.

Much to everyone's relief, the pilot waved the occurrence off. "Sure, yeah."

At least it was a good start to an answer.

"I'm saying we all might as well be dead; if it wasn't for bush-brain over here, the guy wouldn't be tracking us right now." I always considered myself to be a very clement person (even to my worst enemies) but in that moment, I felt like all I could see was red. That rat was one to point fingers, his brains were actually fried! My voice snapped and rang for what seemed like forever, even to my own ears. "I wasn't going to let him die alone in a sewer!"

"Why not!? He wasn't your problem until you made it your problem. Maybe I am sounding like Quackerjack, but maybe he is actually right for once. You caused this, you deal with it." Megavolt gave one final look at Liquidator, a look that he never gave to such gruesome authority. "I can't believe you even talked me into this, and I don't know why you're helping him." To my surprise, Liquidator didn't even seem rattled by the statement, and instead refuted it with mocking politeness.

"The true secret in being a successful individual in the economy is to help those who help your own business; without allies, your customers, financial needs, and the establishment will crumble to nothing." The dog paused for a moment, awaiting for the primary time of soaking in the small example. His features then went stale, adding a terminating sentence that no one expected. "Including you." Megavolt paled, and in my mind I could only ever see him baring fangs. His angry lit eyes were put out of their flame, with a stamp of condescending tension burning his very being. Liquidator, once again, had made his unspoken ascendancy known.

I ruffled through the flimsy foliage that sprouted through the top of Spike's head, admiring the distraught fantasy that it could suck out all of my life choices; for a moment, I believed it could. I gleaned my tongue through my teeth, pondering harshly about what Megavolt had made suitable points against. "What did you mean by just being dead?" The rat, unwillingly, tore away from Liquidator's scorn and beamed fireballs into me. "If that really is a tracker in Dunkwing's arm, then there's no point in ignoring that Bulba is probably on his way this very minute, or at least somebody that's willing to give up their life for his sake. Anywhere we take him is pointless as long as that thing is still implanted in him."

"Then why not commence a refund? Restore the arm to its former glory?"

"Does it look like I'm a surgeon to you?" If Liquidator still had dog teeth, boy would he have bared them until they splintered. Megavolt seemed to take a sort of demented glory in the war of words, but still felt squirmish under the dog's gaze; the rat knew his limits, and he knew when he could push too far. I felt Spike begin to nibble on my arm (an awful habit he picked up recently) and undoubtedly, I swatted him away. But he continued despite my discipline. Finally, I glared down at him, only to hear him angrily grump a question at me.

How did I not think of it before?

"But you can control currents, can't you? Megavolt, you were able to take over millions of tv stations, and bring appliances to life." The rat blinked through his goggles, not fully understanding where he was leading himself into. "What's your point?"

"You were able to recognize the tracker, faster than any of us, so you knew it was also at least connected to some sort of voltage power, right?" Liquidator perked his ears at rails being made for the thought train, grinning slyly to Megavolt's dismay. The rat's fingers practically peeked from the rubbered tips as he clenched them into fists. "I don't like where this is going.."

"Couldn't you control the tracker's currents? Even if you couldn't deactivate it, you could still stunt whoever is on the way to buy us time." Megavolt had already retreated his gaze back to Darkwing, before I could even finish my thought. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was actually considering the idea; lucky for me, I had known better to look through a sympathy that never existed. The ugly smirk that smeared Liquidator's fluid features never vanished, eyeing Megavolt with a similar curiosity. "Well, can you proceed, partner?"

Megavolt grumbled incoherently within a single breath, but faced me with a new expression of respect, something I would have never foreseen. "I could, but if something goes wrong I could electrocute him in the process."

"Then I will be here to stop the transaction." Liquidator drew himself closer to the rat, much of less to his liking. A new grip of hesitation took hold of Megavolt, but masked it with a false stillness. He looked back at me, as if awaiting my own response. "Are you sure you want me to do this? You're the one wanting him alive." Despite his never-ending certainty of every situation life could throw him in, Liquidator also looked silently to me for an answer. I often hated these moments, being the one to have to make the hard decisions; I always preferred just to be the backdrop that no one could pay close mind to. Like a trash can in the setting of a play, or that last candy bar stuck all the way at the back of the shelf that hardly no one wanted to make an effort for.

But I guess all of that was already thrown away, the minute I decided to do something nice for once. Maybe that was why I always loved being a villain, because the heroes were always the ones to fight for the spotlight.

Megavolt and Liquidator were still patient and silent, but I knew it was only a matter of time before Liquidator let Megavolt snot it out of me. I looked at Darkwing, and for a moment I could have sworn he was looking at me too, looking at the very man who held his life in their hands. But who knows, maybe it was just a trick of the light.

It didn't matter, I knew what my answer was before the question even rang for me. "It's all we got, don't we?"

Gosalyn never liked The Winker's Show; not only was it childish, but just plain darn annoying and nonsensical. It was a reality based-driven show, and as far as she knew, practically all children and adults alike (that she could think of) breathed for every new season. Well, aside from herself and Honker of course. Launchpad even seemed taken in at times. And Morgana hadn't watched television enough to even know what it was.

She preferred to stray from the topic of Drake.

Gosalyn never liked The Winker's Show, but she watched it knowing she had nothing else in mind. Cliche lines, cheeky jokes, and screamed blames of someone cheating on their lover whizzed past her head like a bird through an open window; for a moment, she felt a little at peace with herself. But of course, that had to be taken away from her too.

She felt the weight shift on Herb's famous couch, and bit her ravished tongue softly, wishing the moment away like a bad dream. But like bad dreams, it didn't work. She finally glanced up to see the solemn face of Honker, and already felt dread choke her words. Even under the flashing television lights that glazed the side of his lenses, it was obvious that the boy's eyes had been glossed over in a paint of condolence. He held a bowl of steaming potatoes and beef, a known favored dish by Gosalyn. "My Mom is worried about you not eating.."

"Well I'm not hungry, so give it to Tank or something." With a glare of menace in her dusted eyes, the girl tucked her legs to her beak, staring vacantly out the window that laid lazily next to the television set; the wind steered the pouring rain to smash into the rattling windows like thunder. For a brief moment, Gosalyn had forgotten about the spider that had been previously in her lap. She shot her head down to make sure Archie had still been okay; he mumbled an annoyance. If anything, Archie had been by her side closer than an officer dog; he'd sleep with her in the Muddlefoot guest bedroom, all the way to the Darkwing Tower if need be. Gosalyn had made a slight guess it was more of Morgana's willing decision than his, but it still helped to always have at least one face around.

Honker looked down at the dinner bowl longingly, before setting it on the coffee table with careful delicacy. He stayed quiet, precision striking his countenance. "If he survived him once, no, twice, then I know that your Dad can do it again." Gosalyn still refused to even breathe around him. The boy readjusted his glasses in growing vexation, doubling the acoustics in voice. "And I know he would hate seeing you like this-"

"Yeah, and what would you know that I don't!?" The girl spat her words like venom in her mouth; she had finally faced him eye to eye, not that it had been comforting. "You don't know what it's like to lose a family, and I've lost it twice! I can't do it the third time, Honker!"

"I do know, because you're family!" Both of the children settled after that comeback; Honker had finally sunk into his seat, but Gosalyn shivered in emotional young boy looked around his living room; the lights were flipped off, aside from the soft lamp, and the television that had been drowned out by the raging storm outside. "My parents don't pay that much mind to me, and Tank just sees me as some chew toy. But Gos, you and your Dad weren't like that with me; I felt like I was finally a part of something real. This is hurting me as much as you, but you have to pull yourself out of this."

Gosalyn beheld him, curiosity sabotaging the shock that transfixed her features. She looked back at the horrible Winker's Show, pretending for a moment that the characters were real on the suspired, fishing the dangerous demeanor Archie gave from Gosalyn's shadow. It was just another lost cause, no matter what he said.

Chapter Text

It was a monotonous and endearing day of summer school; lifeless classes, the intimidation of school children booming name calling down the sweaty halls, and hard-earned wedgies at recess. Honker wasn't really expecting much of a difference out of that day, and like always, Gosalyn had kept to herself.

The boy had been pulled aside a few times, as a result of his friend's condition. Teachers and principals alike surveyed his blameless face as they asked itching questions. Honker knew better than to let out a personal story, so he always excused himself with a stiff shrug and hoped for the best. It seemed a continuous success, and the adults left him alone after a while.

He had still been checking his glasses as he squirmed out the front doors, in vain attempts to morph its shape back to the original. Honker had the greatest pleasure in facing off with his routinely met tormentor, who in that moment, flickered an instilled fear for breaking or denting the glasses. Again.

As he nudged the said wear onto his harshly fitted countenance, he found a girl. Standing before him, with a new look of aspiration in her soul. "Come on Honk, I was waiting on you!" Honker blinked, wondering if his glasses truly had shattered. "What-"

"I said, come on!" She snatched the boy by the arm, dragging him along the roads toward their homestreet. Honker had never seen Gosalyn so lively, not after Darkwing's vanishing. His mind spun, puzzling what could have gotten in her such a jolly manner. The sun had been setting after a long, hot, day. Its gentle rays gleaned the edges of Gosalyn's mild hair, her eyes milking an icy liquor of green.

This was the moment thought to be lost before everything, when Drake was still home, preparing an address lengthening from the lack of active chores to coming home at later times.

"Gos, what are-"

"You'll see, now quit dragging your feet!"

Gizmoduck grumbled an annoyance; none of the crime files seemed linked to Darkwing Duck's abduction. Shockingly, Launchpad had been the one to even offer up the idea. If they were to look at Darkwing's dust infested cases, one of the locations might have been where vengeance was sought to be taken. The thought was that Darkwing may have, unknowingly, busted some criminal who worked for Bulba (or at least had connections) and wanted to have the last laugh. But currently, that premise was being sucked away like a flimsy crumb on cleaning day; it hadn't helped anyone's mood. It was also another problem that apparently Stegmutt had been a very slow reader.

"Um, I don't know this one." The dinosaur squinted at the delicate files he was grumbling with his huge hands, overcoming the enduring adversity of skimming through the words. Gizmoduck bit his tongue, corking back a yell; Stegmutt had been giving the same excuse for an hour straight. "Stegmutt, didn't I just teach you the basic words?" The duck looked at the reptile dead in the eyes, despite his cracking gaze being thankfully shielded by a helmet. It was a big enough clue however to get Stegmutt to realize the intense message; he started to squirm at where he stood. "But this one is a hard one!"

"Don't sweat it, I'll help him." The pilot took his cue and came to Stegmutt's aide, reading through the words with him quietly. Gizmoduck massaged his beak; this was getting them nowhere. Even if there was a clue in these case files, how would they ever find them? Darkwing had been working at his job for years, much longer than Gizmoduck ever had, so there would bound to be endless more files to go through.

The duck got up out of his chair with shocking speed, grimacing his beak into a frustrated tone. "We're getting nowhere like this, not a single lead is going to be in any of these files."

"Well, I just found one." All of the men in the room turned to look at Morgana, who had been entering as she deemed enrapt into the salvation- induced folders she had been holding. "Heh-wha-how!?" The witch looked up at Gizmoduck, in a very questioning but serious quality. "Out of the millions of cases Wingy has done, how did you find a lead within a day!?"

"Dark labeled it." The witch, vexingly, anchored up the folders covers. The top said folder was comically titled "All Bulba Encounters." Gizmoduck and Launchpad stared into a daze of thought, while Stegmutt tossed away the files like toddler toys. "Ooo, that's smart!" Gizmoduck decided to question his own intelligence later, silently thankful that there had been at least one "woman" on their team. "Erm, yes. Well, what did you find, Morgana?"

Her eyes roved, tearing like strained fabric at a few memories that might have buzzed here or there; her focus was always kept on the files she was holding. "Anything I could really. Although, I've found an interesting one." With a staggered pause, Morgana slipped the paper in question imposingly toward Gizmoduck's direction; it was probably for the better anyway. The armored duck himself didn't even seem to notice the woman's hesitation, as he began to read through the contents with restless eyes. Despite the likely age, the document seemed almost brand new: corners curled to an expensive quality, the printing had been fresh with words, and the pigmentation was utterly colorless. Gizmoduck took a moment to muse before continuing.

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Dark mentions a weasel." The ghoul loomed over the duck's side, her eyes haunting over the cloaked words Gizmoduck couldn't seem to observe. She read the laws of crime out loud.

After my second pleasant date with Bulba, I found this guy scouring around when coming home. Honker caught sight of him lurking right after Bulba took off, out of the water. With my temporary injury, Launchpad tried running him down, but lost him fairly quickly. But that wasn't the last time I saw him.

It was a few weeks after that, if memory doesn't deceive me (as Gosalyn says it does) that me and Launchpad found him at a petty robbery. Launchpad insisted this was the same culprit who fled right after my last encounter with Bulba and his departure. This time, with my incredible profession and expertise, we were able to put him in cuffs.

After taking him to the police station, it was concluded that his name had been marked as Jere Mune, but he had changed his name far too many times to actually get his birth calling. The said stranger refused to state his real name. Seeing relevance, one of the detectives noted that I should simply know him as JM, as he always used those initials when going by different titles.

I don't usually do crime files on such petty ruffians and their messes, but this one kept me at unease. Why else would a detective lend me a nickname to a man I only ever saw once? The fact that he was there when Bulba made his escape keeps me sick enough to keep him in a drawer.

Hopefully, this doesn't come back to bite me.

"Launchpad, do you remember any of this?"

Within a wink, the pilot ghosted beside Gizmoduck, glancing at what was presented. His eyes glowered for a moment, as his face began to grow cold with a distant memory he couldn't trace. "Maybe, but too long ago to really ring any bells for me."

"I wanna see!" The dinosaur had felt prohibited by the entire encounter. In the fever, he swung his weighted tail against a pile of stacked cases, who had previously sat pathetically in a neglected corner. The drastic change in wind bellowed a collapse.

Gizmoduck groaned.

It fell like a baby's rattle. Clanking against the soft spoken ground, wiping away the tears that rolled with the landslide. Yet, the very idol of desires was put out of a curse as it thundered its crash. Everyone in the room was released of its vanishing anchors, myself most included.

Megavolt blinked his mechanical eyes, letting the thing crash to its fate. "Well..that was easy." The once blinding, insignificant, light had now died to nothing. Darkwing's body seemed almost alleviated upon its dearly departed. The rat gave a quick, professional, glance at the mark the device left behind.

I didn't know whether it was a good thing Megavolt had been right, or a horrid thought for him to be wrong. The device did seem tight-fitted against the duck's arm prior to removal, but hadn't been conducted to any surgery I would have ever seen.

The rat traced the pit mark sculpted into the skin, tampering with it in so many ways that I thought I would rip my teeth out. Finally, I patted him on the shoulder, ruthlessly, in order to snap his attention away from the idea of "experiment."

Megavolt scolded with his gaze, flicking off a leaf. "What. You wanted this, didn't you?"

"Not for you to play around." The rat scoffed at my remark. "It's called observing, vegetable head. You know, to make sure I didn't fry him?" Before I could snark back, I heard my Spike yip in trepidation.

Liquidator had caressed the device in a hand, his matter untouchable to its fatal charge. "Knock-offs are always a bargain, I assume." Megavolt pitied a glance, before snatching the tool away from prying fingers. He examined it for himself. "It's not a fake, it's just dead."

"Dead batteries? Why not get better ones for half the price? Oh, correction, you don't even have a cent in sense. You couldn't qualify for such a sale."

Megavolt retorted with a stale gaze. "Are you done now?"

"Perhaps."

"Guys." As much as I love a good comedy, there was a time and place for it. Especially if someone else's life was on the line, and I wasn't just talking about the guy laying on my cot. I caught heads glancing my way. I approached Megavolt once more, offering a hand for the device in question. After briefing a view of it, I stapled myself against the rat's eyes. "What do you mean dead?"

"That's what it is. Dead. No power. That's how Mr. Satire, here, didn't clash with electricity just now." Megavolt ridiculed an eye roll, resulting in the dog casting an abnormal expression.

I dragged my hand across the polished light that once flickered consistently. The contours had been carved the resemblance of an egg, a light paperweight. I flipped the device over, startling my eyes at what was before me.

"Hadn't it aired moments before?"

"I guess, maybe the light on there had its own battery. If there was a second, larger, voltage, I would have felt it."

A small needle protruded from the backside, as the egg dipped into a mimicking conclave. The point had been dampened by a residue, a myth as to what.

"Is it still a functioning product?"

"How would I know?"

"I don't think it's a tracker." The words dribbled from my beak, much to my clueless nature. A soundful hush bestowed upon the tension. I peered up to seek grieving eyes. Megavolt wrinkled his nose into a snarl, preparing a grab at the device in my hands. "What are you talking about. What else would it be? Last time I heard, you weren't for industrialization."

"Because why would a tracking device need a needle at the back of it?" I cupped the device with tranquility, as Megavolt hungrily snapped back into his own fingers. He gave it a long, dead, gaze.

Liquidator had made his way over to Darkwing during the interaction, studying the arm in question. "There's a pierce in our sale." He gestured his flowing fingers against an injection site, much similar to the width of the thought to be-tracking device.

Me and Megavolt observed from afar, as the rat grumbled back in my direction. "What is he, a commercial?"

"Gos, I don't think this is safe; maybe we should just head back home." Honker shivered despite the heated temperatures; he always thought sunsets were beautiful in his city, but never would he think he would view it from the top of the St. Canard Tower. However, like most days, he only did it for Gosalyn's sake.

The girl herself seemed as if memory bombs were blaring their ways into her soul; the first time she had been at this very spot was years ago, and it had almost been the last time she got to live another day. The explosion had of course been cleaned up after Bulba's first encounter with Darkwing, and the events of that day vanished with history over time, but the place was very much the same as it had been. Despite these things, the tower had also been much more than just morbid memories, it had held good ones too. When the Fearsome Five took over the city, this very tower was inhabited for headquarters, and that was when the growing fetus of the Justice Ducks had been formed to stop them.

Those events were only to name a few, but there were plenty more horrific and epic stories that made their origins on that very roof. What led a little girl to that same roof had been another myth of its own, but if Gosalyn wanted her father back she needed to do something about it. The place where the most endearing adventures unfolded was bound to be a place for another beginning.

"I've thought about what you said, Honk." Gosalyn had slipped off the pack she had been carrying, digging into it like a magician would for a rabbit. Her fingers finally laced over what she was looking for, and grabbed it with a firm yank; a flashlight. Before her friend had time to think, she tossed the device over to him, while poor Honker tried to catch it with flimsy hands. She grabbed another flashlight before putting the pack back over her shoulders. "And it got me thinking, if all the adults can't even find a clue about what happened to Dad, then we might as well help them."

"Gos-"

"I know what you're gonna say, "we should let the professionals deal with the situation," well where are the professionals Honker! It's either we do something about this, or we sit around like we have been and wish it all away." Archie grumbled as Gosalyn pushed him back into a small compartment of her backpack, fearing if he would even protest with her ideas. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather do something while Darkwing is still out there somewhere."

Honker blinked, still fumbling with his hands. "But Gosalyn-" Gosalyn growled at the defiance, and physically stamped her foot down. "No Honker, you're either with me or not!"

"That's not what I'm saying; I'd be more than happy to help you find your Dad, but these batteries are dead." This time it was Honker's turn for a grief of annoyance, as he showed the batteries he had taken out of the flashlight's casing while Gosalyn gave her plot-thriving rant. The girl blinked, and chuckled awkwardly. "Oh, yeah. Well, whatever! We only need one anyway." Honker yelped as Gosalyn flashed the light into his eyes, as if to prove a point. He wiped away the stars that dazzled him, as he spoke a question. "But what makes you think we'll find anything up here? Not to mention how far the drop is."

Gosalyn grinned slyly, lights striking in her courageous eyes. "That's what I wanted to show you." She headed toward a door compartment located on the tower, and let the setting sun show the rest; the door had warped in its frame, as dent marks of all sizes scattered themselves like snow. Honker blinked in bewilderment, and looked at Gosalyn as if she were a tyrant. "How did you even do that, and couldn't you have just opened the door?"

"That wasn't me, pickle brain! I saw it like this!" The girl huffed her argument, betrayed that she wasn't a victim. "Think Honker, why would I show you this?"

"Um, to write our erosion essay for school?"

"Besides that!" Honker grumbled, knowing this would take forever; Gosalyn never could say anything straight to you. In some ways, she truly was like her adopted father. The boy shuffled a little, letting the light guide him steady on the marks of the door. Gosalyn was growing irked by the minute, but the boy didn't let it dazzle him. "Well, the door is destroyed."

"So it seems, my dear Watson."

"Gos-"

"Shush! Think, why is it busted?" Honker held back the urge to roll his eyes, but put his head to thinking anyway. It was a little relieving to have the old Gosalyn back for a time, and he didn't want to take it fully for granted. "There was a nasty storm, it could have easily damaged the door. Can we go home now, my Mom really wants me back to try her meatloaf."

"Can the meatloaf! And no, it wasn't the storm. You know why?" Honker sighed, this really was becoming tedious. "No, why?"

"Because how can a storm do this?" After the thought, Gosalyn rammed against the creaking door as a yelp escaped from Honker's shriveled voice; the door fell with surprising ease. The boy stood astounded, as the girl's smile glistened in detective pride. "You would think someone would have replaced the door by now, but hasn't. Which means.."

"We're the first to find it." Honker shivered; he hated being in these types of situations, no matter how good or bad. Gosalyn on the other hand was at least happy they found their first lead, on their own. Both of her pigtails had been flipped to one shoulder as she vibrated with anticipation, her beak curved into the most adorable smile no adult could ever ignore. "Bingo!"

But, as Gosalyn nudged Honker into the doorway with the flashlight, neither of them could have anticipated exactly what they would have found that late day in the summer.

Chapter Text

The engraving omitted a soulless demeanor, sucking the remains of a decade old vampire. The gears that have been tinkering in my head for months roared to life, as the headlights finally secluded my being into an evident shadow of the phantom. Such an imbecile I had pruned myself into! Chopping away the dead leaves of loyalty and intelligence, for the sake of a mere fantasy.

"Wow, maybe he is a potato head." I snapped my eyes into a vicious snare for the coy, clashing worlds against the thoughts of Megavolt's character. "Don't you dare speak ill of Posey!"

"I'm saying it how it is, Veggie."

"Lab rat."

"Oh, now look who's doing the name calling." Words threatened a forest fire, until it had been doused by Liquidator's freezing flame. All it took was a single glance, and I concluded his judgment depleted my will. I cleared a fog that infested within my speech, and blinked into a much more mature thought. "There's words-"

"-so you don't know how to read?"

"Would you-...I meant on this thing, a print." I cradled the needled device back into Megavolt's view, and a half vision for the dog near the back. "Right here, on the rim. What does that say?" The rat decided to take the hint, despite whiffing his eyes away for a momentary annoyance. I cracked my face back from succumbing a juvenile smile, as the rodent's features dropped into a ready grave. "Fiendish Organization of World Larceny."

"Commercially and significantly, known as F.O.W.L." Back in earlier years, even Negaduck grew the suspicion that he was never very fond of what the organization stood for–granted, they were too idiotic and soft on his standards. That speaks volumes for a higher being feared by so many, and dreadfully, myself included. For every penny Spike needed more soil at the mere mention of the name, I probably wouldn't be where I stood in the criminal realm.

If I ever truly was one, I detested revisiting the thought.

"So, maybe he got into some hot water. Wouldn't be much of a surprise."

"That, dear associate, is precisely the steep in our charts. Taurus Bulba is the product, brought back to new, by this corporation."

"And that can tell us how Darkwing got into this mess, maybe even why I found him so close to Liquidator's territory." I couldn't stop my roots from blossoming a dying violet petal; my mind wished to ramble on its own accord. The rat lingered his gaze at my presence, tangling his whiskers like a mysterious delicacy on a deceiving menu. "I still can't see why we couldn't just dump him to the police, if you're so uppity about this."

"I could, if we all wanted to end up in cuffs. Who do you think they'll blame for all of this?" Megavolt gave a silent scoff of distaste, like a burnt wedge had itched his tongue with a bitterness I often found myself sheltered in. The chilling sliver of a river perked my thoughts; Liquidator's stance never wavered, and neither did his tender countenance. When I finally mustered the courage to flicker a gander, the shapes that formed the ridges of his brow raised with a feline curiosity. He didn't have to say it, but that didn't mean I had to acknowledge it.

I'd leave it to dust as my last resort plan, as it would likely come to, knowing my butter luck.

Honker always thought that he understood the controversies of fear, and its case of side-conditions if anyone were prone to its addictive tendencies. Yet, this dose nearly ripped the very heart out of his shrinking chest. He would have lost his voice to sound if Gosalyn hadn't gagged him; she flipped off her light, and grazed her eyes at the sight below them. Steelbeak had been pacing a track into the ground, snapping his head at every henchman who glanced at him in a fanatical eye. "Look, I don't care if you were all to flip dis place on its turn-around; dere's somethin' behind dese walls!" A few of the make-shift soldiers corked away their faces, as others found entertainment in ordinary objects to a bored child's eye.

The rooster grabbed one of the slaves, choking the rims of his collar. The corners of his eyes burned a pulsing red, as if pollen had condemned war in the battlefield across allergy season. "If anot'er one you comes back empty handed, your heads are on my next pike."

"Um…boss?" Steelbeak nearly hissed a tongue, throwing aside the previous, cowering, victim. "Unless it has some'ting to do with Taurus Bulba, don't say nothin' unless you wanna clear your guts from the hallway."

The poor coward in a mastermind's make-up grasped the back of his neck, as if holding it could prevent the twitching nerves. Steelbeak had already begun to prowl forth, pondering an unarticulated pursuit. Honker hadn't gone on many adventures, but he went on enough to be aware of the uncharacterized nature of the rooster below them; an intelligent, patient, thief morphing himself into the shells of brash and thoughtless action. If the give-away of Bulba hadn't been enough to capture the child's intentions of investigation, this surely would have. The boy discerned a crackling grip on his wrist; Gosalyn must have felt his bones whimpering, inheriting a skepticism to ever follow through with her guidance. Maybe, if it had ever been possible, she had been rattling her own brain in what to do.

"I-It is, boss. The sedatives." Much to Honker's dread, Gosalyn couldn't help her typical, tyrannical, curiosity. "What's that?"

"A depressant, normally administered in health-"

"Speak English, Honk!" The boy flickered a notation at the beasts below, as if the predicament hadn't been enough of an excuse for the lack of elaboration. His dear friend, being the neurotic jumper she was, hardly seemed to care. Honker breezed a huff, before hissing a more concise answer: "The stuff that knocks people asleep in those crime films you watch."

"Wha-give me t'ose you dimwit!" As the eggman wistfully portrayed a selected few of small, tubed, devices, the foul went for the kill. In his attempts to retrieve them, the pharmaceutical equipment sprayed themselves into the air, bouncing off floors like store-quality mattresses. Trying to catch at least one would have been catching a Babe Ruth ball.

Honker lost track of the cursing Steelbeak revealed, feeling a bite manifest onto his arms. It took everything within the boy's starved might to not react boisterously, especially when he came into the likes of a familiar spider. Archie had been ravenous clawing, yelping, biting, anything to finally gain some sort of publicity.

Honker was prepared to stuff the arachnid in an airlock bag, until he finally understood the rationale for such commotion; Gosalyn had abandoned her post of hiding, leaping down below him at the pace of a hunted rabbit. The boy nearly tumbled to his doom, as he could only helplessly watch her inch closer to the rooster and his men.

If there was ever a day to die, that day would have been it.

Chapter Text

This was it, her chance to finally grab a small faint of light that was never once lit. She didn't care if she was caught, if it was the only thing between her and seeing her father again, she was darn to take it. Bolting from the shadows, she strangled to catch one of the tubed doses before it crashed against the ground. She was blessed in this pursuit, but yelped as nearby glass splattered against her from the commotion of losing the other doses. She felt a slicing burn singe across her face, shutting her eyes in fear of losing more than her skin. She felt the weight beneath her feet slip, and in its place felt the crush impact of a nearby crate her body slammed into.

She landed on the shattered glass beneath her, and wailed as she felt the shards hack and scrape against her arms; despite all of this, she kept the tube she saved tucked close to her abdomen.

For an act that was so quick, it ticked by in leisure. It was the one reason why Gosalyn didn't expect anyone to have already gotten to her, yet here she was, hanging by the shirt collar through the strength of one of Steelbeak's minions. "Boss, I've got someone! And it looks like she saved one." The eggman slipped the stupidest grin that Gosalyn could have seen any one of his kind muster, as he licked a gaze at her that spoke monstrosities.

She yelled as she felt the tube being forced from her hands, kicking the air in a pitiful attempt to gain the control she once mustered. She managed to kick the top of the container, flipping it momentarily out of Steelbeak's own hand, yet he managed a stumbled catch mere moments later. "Watch it, kid–...hold on, now wait a minute." The rooster studied her face, and grinned in almost a sickening ecstasy. "Hey, I know youse. Don't I, precious?" Gosalyn whacked her muscles into a frenzy, throwing free punches at the rooster's deprived features. When she was just about to finally land one, Steelbeak had grabbed it with a free hand, sending echoes of a hand clamping onto another—Gosalyn would never get that sound out of her head, not for a million years. Luckily, she didn't have to ponder on it for long, for her captured arm was twisted into a disconcerting pose; she yelled in pain.

"Ah ah ah, now let's not get hasty, shall we?" Much to her relief, the aberrant rooster released her twisted arm at the call of his name for a second time. "Got another one, a runner." A much less bulky minion, but still one of standardized strength, threw his victim to the floor—the moment she heard the sound of glasses clanking, Gosalyn knew it was her friend.

Honker groped for his lenses, much to less his avail, and instead remained pinned to the ground with almost no effort. This time, Steelbeak merely gruffed an annoyance, watching the pitiless endeavor. "Great, anyone else wanting to run the show?" In response, a few other guards went to examine the area for potential runaways in hiding, while others remained with watchful eyes for the next order.

"Aw, is the little girl crying?" The bigger minion teased, as Gosalyn gripped her arm, still in shock of the amount of pain that radiated through it, plus whatever glass still wedged themselves within it. She threw another kick aimed at the eggman's face, but it was one of far less strength; her leg gave more of a swing much less the aggravated kick Gosalyn wished to grieve. "Do you want your mommy and daddy? Well, they ain't here right now."

"Enough, idiot." Even by Steelbeak's own demented standards, at least he had some sort of boundary when it came to the mockery of children. Gosalyn hardly cared, especially after the immense pain he caused her.

The rooster turned his attention back to the tube he held in his hands, grinning wildly. "Finally, something to go off of." Gosalyn's eyes cleared for a moment, before boiling with a renewed sense of hatred. "Where's Darkwing!?" Steelbeak whipped his head to capture the girl's attention, his mouth dropping into an almost hurt pout. "Is that what this whole t'ing is about. You think I have him?" He began approaching again, taunting her with the distance of the tube and her hands. "Sorry to break it to ya, little girl, but you really have no idea what's going on here, do you?" As Gosalyn wailed one last siren, a spider escaped from the shadows of the tower, being greeted by the napping sun.

He heaved, knowing full well there was yet a distance before him.

"I said I was sorry." After a vehement scolding, Stegmutt had been remorsefully sitting in the corner of the Darkwing Tower as Gizmoduck used his many gadgets to suck up the mess that the reptile created. He was still grumbling curses and insults under his breath at the notation. Launchpad helped with the cleanup, although it seemed useless compared to the Gizmosuit's efficiency.

Morgana, however, was in the midst of a turmoil.

She gained the sudden sense of a foreshadow, that something terrible was coming her way. She normally didn't get these trepidations unless one of her familiars were harmed, especially if they were a great distance from her. The only time she recalled being in such a state was when Eek had trapped himself in a blender, a blender that happened to be haunted and had its blades spinning uncontrollably. Even then, she was merely in the next room when the event occurred.

Archie was generally much better at handling himself, due to his nature in wishing to stay out of such risky situations, which brought her to worry about another thing—-Gosalyn.

There was a spell that could summon the witch's familiars back to her, but the only setback was that she couldn't summon them back to where they were prior to the spell. She didn't want to leave Gosalyn entirely alone, but yet, if there was trouble, she needed to know about it. Losing Dark was hard enough on its own, but she wasn't about to lose the next closest thing to him.

Committing to that idea, she conducted the spell without allowing time for doubt to fester her mind again. Within seconds, the spider condensed before her.

"Has anyone heard from Neptunia yet? She's becoming almost impossible to find." As he was finishing organizing the last of the fallen papers, the question burned across Gizmoduck's mind like a comet at lightspeed. "I would think she didn't have part in Darkwing's absence, but I'm starting to question it."

"I wouldn't worry about it. DW himself always seemed to stumble into her by chance, other than that, he couldn't ever get to her either." Despite his input, Launchpad still seemed lost in an ocean of thoughts; Gizmoduck honestly hoped that those thoughts weren't hopeless, dragging poor Launchpad to the deep end.

"What!?" The witch's yell was almost unrecognizable; the amount of fear that shook the foundation of those words alone were enough to run an aged sea captain to the hills. Even Launchpad seemed disturbed by it.

"What's the matter?" Within seconds of realization, Gizmoduck remembered to take up the mantle of leadership, rushing over in an amateur attempt to conclude the resolution. However, he was greeted with the face of death.

"F.O.W.L, they took the kids. They're at St. Canard Tower right now."

"The kids?" Gizmoduck couldn't wrap around who Morgana was trying to refer to, but Launchpad did. His face dropped in the most anguished of faces; he dashed to the door without a second glance.

The toymaker shrieked with a throttling rage, darting a ball across the factory as it exploded with slime, wishing it could be blood. Just who did those three bean bags think they were? Protecting a worse nemesis from their potentially biggest ally! He thrusted a baby doll at another shelf, exploding its hidden knives as they clambered to the floor. Idiots, imbeciles, this was worse than when Negaduck backstabbed them. He kicked a ball across the floor, expecting it to trigger another death mechanic; his hope had failed. Stupid toy probably wasn't finished.

Let Darkwing bleed to death, for all he cared! Maybe then the dumb duck would learn not to get in others way. He picked up Mr. Banana Brain, who had witnessed his thrashing tantrum; and Liquidator, oh he was going to get it too. The dog knew he would take over-knew it from the start-and took the authority away from the toymaker before he had a second clue. Friends? No, he didn't even know if he dared calling them allies anymore. Even Megavolt was against him now.

Quakerjack began tweaking a few parts on the banana doll, clutching to the coping mechanism more than he did his sanity. Mr. Banana Brain stared at him through his hollow, gloomy eyes. "Take a chill, Bill!"

"Oh shut up, I didn't ask you." Quackerjack never liked looking at his past, but in moments like these, it was a tad hard to resist. All anyone ever saw in him was a failure, a nutjob, some guy who was in the looney bin for too long. Was it truly hard just to earn some self respect? To be recognized? To be loved?

He sighed, glaring at his psychotic doll; why couldn't they see the very person they were trying to "protect" is the one that always got in the way of what they wanted-what he wanted. Quackerjack bit his tongue, getting ready to start swinging at his toys again until he caught a glimpse of a familiar shadow pasted against the shadows of his makeshift factory; his smile could kill an entire oasis. The jester choked his doll, as blood began rushing to his legs. "You!?"

"Yes, me." Unlike Quackerjack, Negaduck wasn't a very funny guy, but even he thought his appearance had been the utter peak of all comedy. The cracked-out clown began to shuffle backward, only to be met with his back slapping the floor, his fingers straining to grasp anything but air. Negaduck snarled, baring his teeth to add to the sadistic charade. "Aw, is that any way to greet a guest?" For every inch dreadful creature took forward, Quackerjack could only scramble backward against the ground. "A friend?"

"Friend!? You're nothing but a traitor! A…a mean bully!" Negaduck froze midstep, his brow solidifying into a glare. "Would a "bully" offer you this?" The duck yelped as a paper gave a deafening pat against his chest before bouncing onto his lap. Much to Negaduck's dismay, Quackerjack took his sweet time in unrolling it.

"A ... .newspaper."

"Read it, bullhead."

The jester obeyed quicker than a coordinated Doberman; a smile began to twist his lips into something of a menace, with a cackle that formed within the sacks of his throat—it wasn't just any old newspaper, oh no, it was today's newspaper. Negaduck cracked a toothy grin, watching as his hard work began to unfold.

"What do you say, pal? Ready to have some fun?"

Quackerjack remained unflinching to Negaduck's presence, keeping his eyes glued to the paper's headlines as that old resentment began to bubble away the rest of his mind. "I wouldn't know to call it fun yet, but maybe I just need my sense of fun back, then I'll be as dandy as a doll. Hoo hoo!" The headline was blacker than the sky that night, glittering a death wish to all who saw it.

NEW WHIFFLE BOY GAME RELEASE AT ST. CANARD'S OWN ARCADE

Chapter Text

Honker hadn’t known what else to do.

The courageous and defiant young girl he called a friend had been rocking herself like a baby in a carriage, gripping her marred arm; he couldn’t see through all her once vibrant red hair, but Honker had heard chokes of air and heaves of grief escape through Gosalyn’s sobbing. For such a spirited mask she often fronted in the face of menace, she was still just a little girl. A little girl who wanted back what was taken away from her by fate’s cruel hand.

Honker didn’t know what else to do but to hold her; Gosalyn hardly objected.

“This is getting us nowhere! ” Just as the words escaped his lips, Steelbeak had hurled the last tubed sedative barely an inch past the cage Honker and Gosalyn had been set in, smashing it to dust against the wall behind them. “Nothing else in this whole darn place but painkilla’s !? He was here, I know he was!” 

“Maybe he lied.” The eggmen, towering just over six feet, instantaneously halved his size as soon as he was met with the rooster’s pulsing eyes. “ What. ” He began long strides towards the henchman, who began to mournfully retrace his steps. “Y-You know, the guy that tipped us.” The two men had now been barely a breath apart.

“I had a barrel pressed against his head, and youse wanna say he lied .” The eggmen began the dance that was fidgeting his fingers, unable to meet his chief’s rueful gaze. “...maybe?” Steelbeak stared, then he cracked a smile. He chuckled, he erupted into laughter. “Me, a mastermind, with these idiots for help.” He backhanded the duck so hard the egg helmet flew off. 

“You’re sure this is the place?” 

“You’re really gonna question someone with magic?”  In all honesty, Gizmoduck had deserved the pilot’s retort, especially during such a crisis. The sorceress in question had been too occupied to deal with such trivialities; Archie had continued his frantic squabbled account of the situation. 

It was foolish to even question Morgana’s accuracy regardless of her magical capabilities; St. Canard Tower had been home to many of its own villainous travesties, so why couldn’t it offer another bed to its fiendish occupants?  For a small moment, Fenton had the fleeting dream that the purple avenger himself was behind its closed doors, hidden away in vain efforts to prove that he could tackle a high-stakes case all by his lonesome. In Gizmoduck’s mind, it may not have been far from the truth. 

The ghoul continued.“He’s sure of it. But, speaking from experience, I doubt they’ll just let us inside.” Despite such a title of vigilante authority the Justice Ducks may have carried, they were often ostracized from the affairs of the tower, as the owners of such a tower were convinced the city’s so-called heroes were the very cause of its remodeling fees. Gizmoduck titled his head towards the now dark sky. “Does he know what floor, at least?” 

“Yes, but-”

“Guys!” The useless dinosaur now abrupted with significant glee. “I think I found something!” For Stegmutt’s own sake, the duck in the tin  had hoped it had been a book on “Reading for Dummies.” Launchpad began to groan, in which he attempted to stifle with a thin lip, heading around the side of the building that the voice originated from; a few moments of silence startled both the witch and the gizmo. “Guys, I don’t think he’s kidding.”

As the last two of the Justice Ducks (or what was left of them) rounded the corner, the quiet was never interrupted aside from the humming of the nearby streetlight, casting the four of their silhouettes into long, sleek, shadows. Even with night vision activated through his helmet, Gizmoduck had to squint in order to spot the large dinosaur. “Well, out with it.” 

The dinosaur stretched his neck into pole stature, with a wide smile pinching his cheeks. “A baseball!”

“.....right.”

The pilot had been eyeing said ball in his hand, with less than a stellar countenance. With a sense of finality, he closed his fingers around it  like a hatch struggling to close.  “It’s Gos’s.” He trailed his disconcerted gaze toward a column of stairs crawling up the side of the tower. “It was right under the fire escape. That must have been how they got in.” 

“From the roof ?” As much as she had attempted to curtain it, Gizmoduck couldn’t help but to pick up a shrill of unease in Morgana’s words. Launchpad had snapped back to the world with the flash of his eyes, eyes that carved deep shadows beneath them. “Yeah. And that’s where we’re going.”

“Now just why should I let you two’se scamper off?” The rooster had abandoned his senseless violence for that of psychological tease; the bruised-face henchman had still been fumbling around for his lost helmet, an escapade that his higher-command quickly lost interest in witnessing. No, instead he played a coy smile, patient and apathetic eyes, with arms crossed tightly enough to stop a dam from overflowing. His next choice of prey had been the two miserable children huddled at the back of the cage. Honker merely stared back with eyes glazed in terror, while Gosalyn hadn’t even attempted to give a glance. 

“Aw, come one now…” He began a slow stride towards his captures, before finally resting his elbows at the top of their imprisonment; Honker could have sworn Steelbeak smiled something of a red moon, its reflection glinting off his perfect teeth. “....youse can tell me. Give me one good reason, and I might even let ya go.”

Gosalyn tightened her hands around Honker’s stubby little arms, hiding her face with disheveled hair; Honker swallowed. Hard. 

“Um….we’re innocent bystanders?”

“HA!” A handful of eggmen had physically shirked back as Steelbeak forced his attention upon them. “Hear that, boys? Innocent bystanders he says.” For a long, dense moment, there had been no response. It took a simple narrow of the rooster’s eyes before chuckles forced themselves to trickle the air. Satisfied, he returned his attention. “I don’t know,  I wouldn’t call stealing property with a screaming interrogation an “innocent” anything, let alone a bystander.” 

Honker could only watch as the long white pants began to prowl around the sanctuary that was his current prison. “Which brings me’s to another t’ing.” Steelbeak kicked the cage with unrelenting force, nicking some skin from Honker’s elbow with the sole of the shoe. “Why are two measly kids going around town, askin’ about a Darkwing , huh?” The hunt continued, but this time Honker made sure to never let the legs leave out of his sight as they made their rounds. “The fool that runs in the night, the psycho who dares declares he’s a hero…” Gosalyn yelped as another kick was swung to her side of the cage. “....the hero who seems to not have the slightest care in saving a couple of STUPID KIDS.” Steelbeak had grabbed hold of both sides of the cage, sliding it madly against the wall, peering through the mesh with a psychotic craze. “IS THAT RIGHT?”

“Frankly, no. But that’s besides the point.” 

Steelbeak swung around faster than a runaway dreidel, only to meet a sincere black fist to spin him back again. Honker witnessed in amazement as the eggmen laid sprawled about the ground, groaning and groping for a hand that wouldn’t reach them; his line of sight was broken by the one and only Gizmoduck, whom had raised his visor to expose warm and domineering eyes. “You kiddies alright?” 

The bruised and helmet-less eggman continued his sprint for the stairs, smiling wildly at the ironic turn of events; it was rather refreshing to watch your own boss get a taste of his own medicine. But the henchman hadn’t had the time nor the mind to truly savor it, as he knew time was soon precious before his fate exhibited that of his fellow buddies. He skidded a corner, stopping himself against one of the cold, brick walls. The stairs were before him now, a gateway to a grand tale if he’d ever known one.

At least it would have been, if Morgana McCawber hadn’t been blocking the first step. 

Her once emerald eyes glowed a blood color, as small wisps of magic already began manifesting itself under her control. She smiled. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The goon emitted a yelp before swirling to go back where he came, only to meet with a feather hungry reptile gunning straight towards him. “You hurt my friends! Now I’m gonna hurt you !” He pressed a now rattling spine against that cool wall, whipping his eyes in a frenzy between his two attackers. In a fit of desperation, he continued his bolting for the stairs. 

Morgana raised an amused eyebrow; she flicked a single index finger, thrusting the eggman back against the end of the hallway by the seeming call of a wind. In further bemusement, she kept him pinned at the wall he crushed against, hanging him with a chokehold by some invisible hand. Stegmutt skidded to a halt, snarling and gnashing his canines as spit dribbled from his mouth. The eggman strained to reach his neck, but to no avail. 

“I’m rather kind, so I’ll give you two ways of going about this.” The witch began her own approach, her eyes never losing target. “Either you tell me everything that went on here, or I can hand you over to my friend.” She began to slow a stop near the middle of the hallway, her crimson eyes glowing ever brightly now. “Take your pick.” 

“Bulba! Alright, we came for Bulba!” Morgana felt a jolt of pain rain through her; she flicked another finger, allowing the goon to choke for a moment. “ Why? ”

“The-....They….want…him.” Stegmutt snapped his jaws, letting the stench of the hotdog he ate that afternoon to creep up the eggman’s flaring nose. Morgana flicked yet another finger; the goon began to see stars. “ Who? ”

“High….Command.” The eggman dropped to the floor with a solid thud ; the witch had allowed a balloon of air to escape from her lungs. Stegmutt began a rise back onto his hind legs, staring at a now unconscious runaway. He stayed that way for a moment before turning to face the ghoul, with a tongue that oozed a dubious question. “What did he say?”

“Something about a High Command.”  She glided her way towards her victim, eyeing him with a pathetic glance. “I’m sure one of the boys might know.” 

“Should we take him with us?”

“He no longer has use.” The reptile flashed a disquieted frown at her words; it would have taken the sun being blown up for Morgana to have noticed. In the presence of her apathy, Stegmutt could only mutter a simple “oh” before the two of them began backtracking down the long hall. The dinosaur swung his tail like a slow pendulum, letting his thoughts radiate through his green lengthy metronome. “I didn’t know you could do any of that.” 

“Neither did I.” Stegmutt stopped in his tracks, dragging Morgana back with him by a phantom leash. “Really?” The ghoul had to search the light in his eyes before she realized she had mistaken his sincerity for sarcasm. “Well…truthfully, yes. I meant to turn him into pudding.” Stegmutt blinked, his pupils widening bigger than the night sky. “Why didn’t you?”

For a moment, the witch gave no response, merely a glare that grew blackly. But as the glower began to deepen her features, the reptile saw the flash of that red moon across her eyes, the same one Honker had witnessed on the cruelly delightful Steelbeak. “I suppose I just grew impatient.” 

“I don’t know what I’m gonna tell Herb and Binkie.” The pilot had been running pale fingers through his frail and diluted hair for the past few minutes, as if the act could magically vanquish all his troubles. Gizmoduck had been finishing addressing Gosalyn’s wounds; picking out the glass shards that still stuck to her arm like fleas, while attempting a half cast on the other, whispering a silent prayer that he had angled the bone into a good healing position for the time being. 

“You don’t need to. They’re used to this sort of thing.” The young boy had been coaxing his fractured glasses, caressing them with a strange hope of healing power. “I’ll just tell them I got strung up on the school flag again.” But it hardly seemed to be the seed of Launchpad’s worries; his eyes were glued to a young girl’s that refused to meet his. 

Gizmoduck had known the look all too well, mostly due to his wearing of it. Visions of times when Scrooge’s young boys were five inches from meeting the reaper’s scythe, the same children that looked up at him with admirable eyes and guppy smiles. He couldn’t help but to rewind a phrase that often materialized in his thoughts during those grim moments, spurred up  upon the sight of Launchpad’s bearing:

What good are you if you can’t save the ones who depend on you the most? What kind of hero does that make you out to be?

Gizmoduck shuddered, witnessing only a branch of what grew from the cracks of the ultimate interstice that was in the paradox of justice. He was unsure if he truly wished to know what had been the heart of such a dark prophecy. In its presence, the duck clowned on it with a feverish smile. “Well, I say that’s a good plan. Don’t you, Launchpad?” 

“Yeah…” The pilot, in turn, swept his face away, still clutching his hair like the staircase railing of the fifth floor. “….yeah, sure.” It didn’t take long before the witch and dino duo returned, and it took even less time for devastation to bleed across their faces upon the sights of both Gosalyn and Honker. Gizmoduck had taken his cue to leave the children in their aid, comforting them in ways and manners Launchpad seemingly couldn’t afford to do moments before. Gizmoduck parted his lips and readied a tongue, but ultimately left the one-shot-sidekick to his own thoughts. 

Instead, he made sure to bound the limbs of their steel-beaked culprit with rope the Gizmosuit had stored, giving one final glance before deducing that he was amidst deep slumber. With aimless wonder, he began to investigate the shattered tubes across the floor, still slick with the remnants of their residues. “And what do we have here?”

“Sedatives.” Fenton perked his attention back to the boy, who eyed him back in return, along with a favor of complacency. “They said they were sedatives, before they found us.” It was an odd reality; that Honker had been the talkative one, and Gosalyn the mute. “I see. Thanks, for the tip.” 

“They also said someone tipped them.” Fenton could only hold his position, like a deaf deer standing on the railway in front of a runaway train. There had been a touch of maturity behind those words, a tap that Gizmo had concluded was too early to bear fruit for Honker’s age. He led out a tentative whistle of lung-air that Gizmoduck had hoped could pass for a light chuckle. “ Well, aren’t you full of clues?”  

“Hey, uh, Gizmoduck?” A blessing from the heavens.

Much to his surprise, the voice had again originated from McQuack, who stood eerily before what looked to be a wall, his hands pressed coldly against its surface. His attention never broke focus from said wall, even to holler Fenton over. When the pilot didn’t follow up on his speel of thought, Gizmoduck gave approach. “Yes?” 

“Wasn’t there a room here before? I might be wrong but-...” Gizmoduck’s axel had given a small squeal as he halted, now towering over Launchpad from behind; he immediately went to work, activating the scan in his helmet of the material under Launchpad’s hands. He was right, aside from memory of battles, this had been a convincing false wall. One so caked in darkness that hardly anyone would have batted an eye at it, unless they were truly searching for it. 

With a few grunts and pulls from the two of them, cracks and slaps finally gave way, as the makeshift board fell off the frame of the entrance, crashing against the floor with splinters afloat. What greeted before Launchpad was more darkness, but for a Gizmoduck with built in night-vision, it felt like a nightmare.

Ropes galore had sprawled the floor, along with foreign snow-colored feathers. A pair of shattered, rusted, shackles rested against one of the far walls of the small room, as well as stacks of stank papers slathered across the rest of the walls. There was also another thing, in the furthest darkest corner, but Gizmoduck wished to be sure before reaching his finalization. For Launchpad’s sake and torment, he clicked on a light built into his suit for the pilot’s own eyes to perceive. 

“...what is this.” 

“What it looks like.” The pilot had made his way over to one of the cluttered walls, squinting to look at the readings on them. “I can’t read any of them, they’re blotted.” But Gizmoduck hardly heard, in fact, he hardly cared. He had stood before the corner now, and what was there was no longer mistakable. He picked it up with warmth. 

The brim of the dark fedora seemed to have smiled back at him, a somber smile. You’ve found me , it spoke, so what are you gonna do now, bigshot? Fenton’s chest rattled with each inhale, as his vision threatened to double; he blinked it back under that mighty helmet. The hat had looked worn and sad, having witnessed tragedies beyond any demented imagination. It was waiting for him, waiting for Gizmoduck to make a leader-based decision. But he didn’t have one, and maybe that’s why it seemed so sad. 

It had been at least a step closer from where Fenton had started.

Chapter Text

Gosalyn felt like an idiot, but she wasn’t bound to admit it anytime soon. She was stupid for even playing with the idea of playing the secret avenger; she should have listened to Honker for once in her life about letting the adults handle the adult things. Even if it meant losing sleep every night over one of them going missing too. Even if it meant seeing Taurus Bulba standing behind her in the mirror each morning as she brushed her teeth, staring down at her with his single bulbous, fleshy eye as the other hummed an eerie red. Even if it meant she’d never get to see her father again as opposed to doing something about it, while a depressed pilot, a spiteful witch, a far too sensitive dino, and an arrogant tin-man ran around the city like chickens with their heads cut-off. 

All she had left to say for herself was her father’s hat, frayed at the ends, the fuzz of its cloth matted with old sweat, and a stench that spoke horrors to anyone’s nose. The moment she had laid eyes upon it, in Gizmoduck’s fumbling hands, she cried out the biggest sob she hadn’t ever realized was building inside of her. The tears wouldn’t stop coming, no matter how hard she tried. Her chest hurt like a thousand pin needles had stabbed their way through it. The rest of that moment became a blur, but by the end of it, it was safely decided that Gosalyn should keep the hat. 

She had laid motionless in her bed, with said hat under her head like a pillow. She rubbed her fingers against it softly as if cooing a small child, keeping her beak stuffed into its contents despite its horrid smell; it reminded her of Drake, and that was all that mattered to her. 

The door drew open, revealing a long squeal upon doing so. If it hadn’t been for its echo, Gosalyn would have never noticed; her back absorbed most of the light that fell through from the doorframe. Her bedroom fell to darkness once more as the door gave a second squeal before clicking in its departure. 

She had expected something: a voice, a muffled stepped, breathing. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead there was stillness, a vacancy in sound. The girl tightened her grip on the fedora; a ball of stone cemented in the pits of her stomach. She had wanted to believe that whoever happened to the door had peeked in at her, and then left, closing the door along the way. But something in the room changed when that door did close. An eerie foreboding of a conversation Gosalyn wished to never partake in.

And she was right.

There had been a shift, and then a move in weight on her bed. Someone was sitting beside her now, staring at her back, but still didn’t offer voice for sound. Gosalyn knew this trap, as it was one that Drake often devised during one of their spats. He’d come up the stairs, into her dark room, and sat beside her until Gosalyn gave in. Until Gosalyn made the initiative to reach a resolution to their dispute. 

The silent shadow was waiting for Gosalyn to utter the first word. 

And at first, she refused to fall for it. But then, what if it was Drake? Creeping around the house, for whatever that reason might be? Coming to check in on her, to tell her that he was okay and not to worry about him. What if he left if Gosalyn refused conversation? She had to take that chance, the second stupid decision she would make that day.

“What.” 

You tell me, kiddo. She could hear Drake’s words now, but his voice wasn’t what called back to her. 

“How are you feeling?” Gosalyn felt Morgana’s cool hand touch her arm; she jerked from it, like a dog receiving a slash from a cat’s claws. “Fine.” The word was spat from her lips. There had been no further gestures nor comment, but the bed still held double its weight. “Gos, you need to talk-”

“I don’t need to talk to you or anybody!” A dreadful click had revealed the room of darkness into one of light and clarity; Gosalyn felt a pipe burst in her thoughts, leaking fumes that wished to come out in the language of tongue. 

“I know you hurt for him. We all do.”

“Do you really? Do you really .” The young girl whipped around to face her invader of dark rumination, shuffling to the edge of the mattress. Her hair bled the color of a massacre as her eyes died of her old spirit Drake loved so much. Much to Gosalyn’s rage, Morgana was hardly puzzled; the ghoul’s face was set to a cool indifference, with a gaze that never wavered, eyes that were willing to face whatever war came over the hill. 

It was comical, as if she had expected backlash that started from such a simple question. Gosalyn gripped the edge of her bedframe, fingers digging into the delicately carved wood. 

“I do. But you appear to doubt that.” 

“Gandra, please !” Fenton Crackshell had been facing demons of his own, in the form of a strenuous telephone call that had blared minutes before from his suit. He strolled on a single wheel in circles in a secluded alleyway, hoping to a divine that no one would pass by and eavesdrop on his conversation. “You’ve ignored every call I've had! I had to contact your mother to even get to you now, Fenton!” It was a known fact that Gizmoduck could never bail a call on Mrs. Crackshell unless he wished to release a war to end all wars, and she had been rather cold herself when notifying Fenton of Gandra’s threat to leave him if he didn’t call her back. 

“Sweetness, I know I’ve been busy, but I can’t help that right now!”

“What is so important that you have to ghost me? That you have to leave me in the dark, for a whole month ?” Even through the static lines, he could hear the painful inflection in her voice. Fenton would never get that sound out of his head, even in senile years. “I-....I…can’t tell you that.” 

“Then I guess we have nothing else to talk about.” Hearing those words had been like witnessing a door slam shut before him, a final statement that he could never reverse, that he could never read between the lines too in its blunt nature. Fenton’s heart lurched in a pounding grief, as the muscles in his neck popped as he lurched forward into the phone.

“NO, WAIT.”

“I’m giving you one chance, Fenton. And that’s to tell me what’s going on.” And he was blatherskiting prepared to. He was crying to tell her that he had been in St. Canard, that he was on a manhunt for an old friend. He was going to ball his heart out for all the pain he saw on the others’ faces: Launchpad’s distant mind, Morgana’s dark grief, Stegmutt’s sullen eyes, Gosalyn’s meltdown for a dumb old hat. 

But most importantly, Fenton was going to rip out of his chest that he was the one and only Gizmoduck. 

“Gos, look at me.” She wouldn’t, not that it changed anything. Morgana had been lucky she hadn’t made the second attempt to touch her yet, as she would have lost a few fingers in the act. Instead, she stared at that miserable hat, who merely gawked back at her in a twisted sort of consolation. I hate you, you gave me nothing but trouble . The hat gave no response. 

“ Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“I’m DONE talking!” Gosalyn flopped the hat at the witch, failing its attempt to mimic a missile. Morgana had aired a catch, despite it having already made its landing; her eyes turned to slits. “Would you just listen to me!?”

The tears burned like acid on her juvenile face, as Gosalyn felt that the rest of her body began to shake: it originated from the buzzing in her head, to her throat, chest, spine, fingers. It was an utter earthquake. “What is there to listen to? You don’t get it, none of you get it! You don’t know what it’s like losing a parent!”

“I do!”

“How!?”

“Because I lost a mother.” The pounding in her head froze, as blood rushed back to her face; she finally forced herself into a confrontation against what she thought to be an attacker. Having been the master of lies herself, Gosalyn could not see a trace of falseness in Morgana’s expression. Instead, she witnessed a cold sincerity of the words she just uttered. The ghoul’s shoulders finally resigned, her gaze burying the flash of anger that it had moments before. “I know it feels as though no one understands, but the devil works in the details. You’ll never know if someone does understand unless you give them that chance.” This time Morgana had made her second attempt at physical connection, and she had managed to keep every single one of her fingers; Gosalyn didn’t shirk from the touch this time. “I’m asking you to give me that chance.” 

What Morgana had spoken made sense, but regardless of the logic, Gosalyn still felt bitterness against it. But the devil works in the details . All it took was a single sinister thought, a minute too long on a feeling that led to an imprecise conclusion. It took only a few more minutes for that resentment to build in the feeling-idea, and merely a day to break whatever love Gosalyn may have had. 

It took even less time for it to take her spirit from her. The spirit her father loved so much. 

Don’t give up, kid. His false voice had been too much to bear. Never lose that spirit. Gosalyn began to shake again, but this time it was to release the pain, not withhold it. She collapsed into Morgana’s arms, and began to grieve. 

He couldn’t do it, and it was because he loved her too darn much to. “I’m sorry, Gandra” was all he could murmur before the line cut. For a moment, time stilled. Fenton felt cold. His heart died much like the phone line did. Why. Why did he have to love her. It would have been so much easier if he hadn’t. He supposed it was because the good ones always died first, and Gizmoduck was the pinnacle of good. 

He couldn’t tell her, in part to the promise he had made to Mr. McDuck when he took this job. That he shouldn’t utter this terrible secret to a single soul, if not for himself, than for their sake. It was better that they didn’t know than risk being targets of Duckburg’s worst enemies. 

But this wasn’t Kansas anymore, it was St. Canard. Regardless, the promise rang truer than ever: with Darkwing Duck gone, the city was going through its own state of chaos. Low time robbers and dumb teenagers wanting to make a name themselves in this city, ranging from petty crimes to full on car chases. The police had been screaming for the aide of the Justice Ducks (Neptunia included), for anybody that could have possibly lended a helping hand.

No one knew Darkwing Duck’s name until he had vanished from the building tops. 

Unlike Gosalyn, Fenton couldn’t bring himself to cry. Because what else was there to lose? 

For a few fleeting minutes, she forgot the cold shadow Darkwing left behind. Gosalyn had always viewed herself as the tough one, the kid that could take on anything this city threw at her. If she could see herself now, she’d be hysterical. But she didn’t want to let go, not for the world. The last time she had been hugged was by Binkie Muddlefoot, when Launchpad was forced to bring first news of Drake’s unforeseen departure. “Oh poor dear” she pitied. With stiff arms, she wrapped Gosalyn into a wooden embrace. The air went stale. Gosalyn shivered. A fake compassion was enough to unnerve any child who knew the difference. 

But Morgana’s embrace remained true. 

It remained tight, but not overtly so. It didn’t care for visual composure, to tell Gosalyn everything was going to be alright . No, it spoke the reality. That things weren’t okay, but that she was going to be okay regardless, because someone was there for the girl. The hug didn’t just tell Gosalyn was loved, it showed it. 

“I want him back…”

Morgana offered no reply, simply because she had been stifling her own grief for the sake of her lover’s daughter. Both of them lost all sense of time, instead enjoying the silence that filled in time’s place. It took a bit before the ghoul realized Gosalyn had fallen into slumber whilst still in her arms. 

Steadily, she laid her against her pillow, making sure the hat was returned to the girl’s arms in her personal absence; Gosalyn squeezed it, peacefully. It wasn’t until she turned off the nightstand that the witch’s own tears began to fall. It also wasn’t until she closed the bedroom door for the final time did the tears vanish just as quickly; Launchpad stood to greet her.

“How is she?”

“Alright, I think. For now.” The duck gave a curt nod, glancing at the now closed door. “I heard some yelling, and I thought….” He gave a half shake of his head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t really matter.” Morgana held a look, and after deducing Launchpad had seemingly nothing more to add, she began her way.

“Hey, uh…” She drew a silent breath, and turned back around to a prancy pilot. “I know it’s kinda sudden, but there’s this new little Whiffle Boy convention downtown Gos could go to.” Launchpad held the back of his neck, suddenly taking keen interest in the floorboards. When he was met with no response, he looked up to a discombobulated Morgana. 

“A whiffle-what?” It took the dummy a few minutes before he understood the confusion; he coughed a dry laugh, a smile zigzagging across his beak in petulance. “Ah, you know. The video game.”

“What’s a video game?” Man, this woman could be dense.

“It’s just something Gos might be into, to, you know….distract her from all the other…stuff.” Morgana had glanced at the wall for a moment, with a pensive air to her. “I suppose, if you think it’ll really help.”

“Oh, I know it will.” Launchpad had danced a smile, locking his eyes with hers with utmost pride. Oh, how dead wrong Launchpad could be.

Launchpad never liked rainy days; it always meant bad turbulence for flying, which usually meant that--over Scrooge McDuck’s dead body--he would be allowed to fly. Today was no exception, the cool rain pattered the sides of the car, casting shadows over the afternoon sun. He thought it best to join the kiddos in the arcade gaming; he felt horrible enough for how Gosalyn was handling the entire Darkwing situation, and was well over-deserving a break from life’s problems. 

Maybe the pilot was due for one too. 

Launchpad did make an attempt at convincing Morgana to come, but after the recent debacle with Steelbeak and his egg-headed goons, she bluntly refused. He wouldn’t have blamed her, he was pretty tempted to turn the car around himself. But he couldn’t, he had to do it for Gosalyn at least. 

Even the radio that played only cracked quiet static under the rain, making Launchpad wonder if the tone of the evening was to mock him of the past events. He clenched his jaw tighter as he made a turn: D.W’s handled the worst, he can take whatever is thrown at him now. I know he can. “No Honker, you need to step up to these guys!” Launchpad flinched at the remark, breaking him out of trance, as he glanced up at the rearview mirror; Gosalyn wore a scrutinizing face as her poor friend was strangled under her gaze. “Tell the guy to stop nicking with you the “guy’s” way!” 

Honker blinked behind his lenses. “The guy’s way?” The girl sneered, flipping her blood-thristy bangs from her glowering eyes. “You know, kick em in the nuts or some-”

“Gos, if you can’t talk like that with D.W. around, then that still applies to me.” The girl retreated from her stance, glancing up at the pilot with a skirmish smile. “Sorry...I’ll zip it.” Launchpad wasn’t entirely sure, but he hated to admit that Gosalyn had actually been more cooperative ever since….well, ever since Drake was gone. His heart tore at the thought. He cleared his throat, hoping to shake off that dreading feeling that flooded him. 

“Who’s picking on ya, Honker?” The boy gazed out into the rain, obviously not eager to explain the topic. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Gosalyn’s eyes glared from a green to the vibrancy of her hair--red. “Yeah, a guy dunking you in a swirly is nothing . If I had been there I would have….oh nevermind.” Launchpad bit hard to hold back a chuckle, the painful feeling on his tongue stung his eyes with tears. 

It reminded him of one the cases he was on with Darkwing, and that night had brought them to a toilet making factory. His purple friend had been searching through the toilets to find any leads for the crime scene, when Liquidator dunked the vigilante’s head into a forever flushing current of a toilet. Launchpad still made fun of him days after the encounter had passed, which usually got him a whack upside the head. I really do miss you Drake...we all do. He just hoped that the others were having better luck with the case right now, especially if he couldn’t be there himself. Darkwing was always the glue that held the team together, and when he couldn’t be there to be that glue--well, everything sort of crumbled into an organized catastrophe. That fact had been more than prominent the first time the Justice Ducks formed; everyone was held against their own, when Darkwing made a timely gesture to sweep everything into the right direction. 

“Launchpad, you’re gonna pass it!” He flipped out of auto mode, realizing he was seconds away from passing the arcade building; the place had seen better days, especially with all the rain washing away centuries old paint, but it was nothing a new makeover couldn’t fix in the future. He swerved the car, nearly barging into another one passing the opposite direction. The other driver honked, yelling incoherent words to get out of the way. Launchpad chuckled oddly. “I guess I still haven’t lost my touch, eh?” Gosalyn rolled her eyes while Honker snickered. 

The gravel crunched and screamed, as the car pulled over to a halt, then gave an unnatural silence much similar to death. The pilot ushered the kiddos to the building, the rain pouring harder than ever; it seemed odd for there to be so much rain during the summer time, but Launchpad never much cared for it, he had other pressing matters than whining about the weather. 

The place was thickly coated with fogs of sugar, grease, and sweat; a natural habitat of children’s sugar rushes and teenager’s sweaty acne. Honker cringed at the bitter atmosphere while Gosalyn lit up like a brand new candle; every worry she might have had was washed away by the rain and gaming hours. Before Launchpad could utter the offer, Honker and Gosalyn darted off into a similar direction, where he presumed to be the showcasing of the new game they had been on edge for. He laughed quietly to himself, before being yelled at once again.

“Look, it’s Launchpad!” The pilot nearly felt his heart jerk as three young boys--the outfitted  iconic colors of red, blue, and green--swarmed him, tumbling over each other to strangle him with embraces. Launchpad felt his voice crack without intention as he spoke; he hadn’t seen Scrooge or his nephews since he started the search to help find Darkwing. “What are you guys doing here!?”

Dewey had been the one who piped up, but it wouldn’t have mattered as his brothers had the same thoughts. “The new Whiffle Boy showcase! They're only doing it in St. Canard, so Uncle Scrooge took us to visit-”

“-and we were hoping to see you too!” Louie beamed a cherry-blossomed smile, as Dewey mimicked the gesture. Huey had given a stout one, with a lingering question behind his eyes, but Launchpad never acknowledged it. “You mean Mr. McDee is here too?” The green boy blinked, as if the answer had been obvious. “Well yeah, how else could we get here?” 

Huey quickly popped in, eagerness gripping him stiffly by the neck. “But he’s across the street, he wanted to check out potential...uh-”

“Buyers.”

“Right, buyers.” Dewey queued lazily, not much caring for his older brother’s antics. Huey glanced at his hands, fumbling with them in a careful mind. “Oh, alright.” Launchpad glanced longingly through the stormy windows; the pilot had been dodging the old duck’s calls since everything swirled into chaos, and he could only imagine how Scrooge might treat him once he found him again. It was a both comforting and horrifying thought. “Where have you been, you never answer our calls or letters! Ya even got Unca Scrooge worried.” All three boys gazed curiously at their beloved pilot, hoping he could give an answer they all desired to hear, however different those desires may have been. Launchpad felt a lump form in his throat; he didn’t wish to boggle them with his problems, especially ones from a different side of his life they had never really been a part of. But they deserved an explanation for his neglect, Launchpad could just never tongue the right excuse for it.

Maybe this was the end of the line for him, the day Launchpad finally lost the marathon of running from his problems. But then he caught the gaze of them, Gosalyn and Honker eyeing him curiously as to why he was huddled by three young boys. To see these two different worlds, different lives clash against one another, was too much for Launchpad to endure. 

The pilot chuckled humorlessly, giving a slight nod to the two children spying on him from afar. “Just family stuff, it’s no biggie.” One of the boys was about to breathe another question--Launchpad wouldn’t have known from who--as an announcer at the front of the arcade cracked on the microphone. “Hey there youngsters! Are we having fun here today?!” A group of younger audiences yelled in response, their voices muddled into white noise. The distraction gave Launchpad time to slip away from the triplets, and edge toward Gosalyn and Honker at the other side of the building. Little to the pilot’s knowledge, he never escaped Huey’s keen eye. 

Gosalyn met with Launchpad’s gaze, giving him an oddish look as to what happened. But--and much to his relief--the girl saved the conversation for another day, as the announcer spoke once more. The announcer smiled stupidly, crossing the faces of the people that had huddled around a makeshift stage. “Oh, well I mean that’s great, but I guess if there’s already fun going on we don’t really need this showcase now do we?” The announcer had gotten angry yells and curses in response, ones so loud that even caused him to retreat farther on the stage. “Okay, alright! Kids can’t take a joke these days.”

A large curtain had been draped behind the man, lit up by warm flashing lights other game consoles had emitted onto it like little dancing does’. Within a hidden gesture from behind the stage, the curtains were flapped open, revealing television sets with gaming controllers ready for the taking. Young children screamed in excitement as parents grimaced at the screeching, wondering just why they chose to come there. Launchpad couldn’t help but to comically imagine Drake being among them. 

The speaker began to continue, expressing outrageous facts about the mechanics of the video game, just how it was developed, and other useless leisure descriptions. Launchpad began to blank out for half of it, until he found himself looking behind him; he froze. The old Scottish man himself appeared through the front doors, instantly greeted by his great nephews. The pilot bit the inside of his cheek, feeling his chest sting with panic; should he go and greet him, or stay away for a little while longer? 

The first week Darkwing had been abducted was the worst week, as the news blared the question into everyone’s ears: where is St Canard’s questionable vigilante? The hardest part wasn’t even trying to explain to the Muddlefoots where Drake was without giving away his identity, it was trying to keep that from Scrooge. Launchpad often questioned if he couldn't have just told him in the first place, and then he wouldn’t have ended up in this mess. 

But if he had told him, then the news would have only spread worse. When the pilot chose to move to St. Canard, he used the excuse to tell Mr. McDuck that he had “been offered an undeniable offer,” that could lead his life in a better direction. Drake had made a solid decision that only few individuals could know who he worked with, and that included ones back in Duckburg. Not that it didn’t tempt the pilot to tell; just about everyone back at the manor pressed him for more details. But in the end, Scrooge finally let the whole thing slip. 

If he told Scrooge that he had been working with Darkwing now, that would arouse many questions Launchpad didn’t wish to confront. It was bad enough Gizmoduck seemed to judge him for it, and it took a close miracle to convince him to keep it from his employer. It was just a matter of bandaging old scars. 

Launchpad turned back around, a hard lump forming in his throat; he just had hope to rely on in not being discovered. “Launchpad, Launchpad!” Once again, the pilot was snapped out of his thoughts as Gosalyn gave him a hard nudge in the side. “Wha?” 

“We’re asking if Honker can go!” The girl scowled, forcing the pilot to hold back a smirk; it was the same scowl Darkwing would have given him. That, and it was darn cute on her. “Uh...go where?” Honker blinked, pushing up his glasses as Gosalyn beamed fire. “Were you even listening to what the guy said?”

“Pfft yeah…...no.” The girl dead eyed him, as Honker laughed quietly. “They're asking for volunteers to play through the demonstration, and Honker wants to go!” Launchpad glanced at the young boy, who looked like he could sweat a whole flood. “Do you?” The boy looked up, looking reclusive as ever. “Not really, Gos wants me to.”

“Gos, why don’t you go?” The pilot raised a questionable eye, as the girl tried to avoid the fact that she was trying to avoid his gaze. “I want to give Honker the chance, but he’s being stubborn about it. He’s never even played a Whiffle Boy game!” Launchpad stared dumbfounded, as Honker shrunk into an even smaller ball. “You haven’t??” 

“N-Not really; Tank usually has all of the consoles.” 

“That’s it, I’m about to bust Tank’s a-”

“Heeey.” Launchpad casted a sideways glance at the girl, causing her to grumble in response. He knew Drake always did a better job, but right now Launchpad was all there was. Once the statement had been made clear, he returned his attention back to the squirmish child. “I think Gos has got a point here though; what’s a one round gonna do?”

“Yeah, it’s not like it’s going to blow up in your face.” Honker moaned a whine, before his best friend took him by the arm and dragged him up the stage. The boy lined himself up with the other children, waiting in impatience to be blindly picked. Much to Honker’s suffering, he had been one of the picked volunteers. “You got this Honker!” Gosalyn had cheered from beside Launchpad, as the pilot gave a witty smile. 

Much to Launchpad’s suffering, another constant had been chosen: Huey Duck. He took a sharp breath as the boy froze and met eyes with him from the stage; his gaze held anxious desires and vengeful betrayals the pilot knew were aimed for him. Despite how he felt, Launchpad swallowed it down and gave a slight nod, while Huey gave an even smaller smile in response. It may have been just the moment, but the duck could have sworn he felt the daggers of Scrooge McDuck’s eyes at the back of his neck, ready to stab into his flesh at any moment; he never turned around. 

“Alright my lucky contestants, on the count of three we’ll start the first round. Ready?” Yells of joy and laughter were the response, and the speaker continued. “One…” Honker and Huey, who had been conveniently placed beside one another, felt their fingers itch as they readied their on-screen players. Honker was focused on remembering what button did what action, but Huey was in a much different mindset. His mind wandered to the employee’s only room, where the door was opened but a crack. He swore there was a gleaming smile behind that crevice. 

“Two….” Launchpad caught Huey’s eyes, which had been widened in alarm. The pilot casted his own gaze in the direction the kid had looked in; the door opened wider, and it was clear that no staff member of that building was the one opening the door. 

“Three…” No. He yanked Gosalyn by the shoulder as he hurried to the stage. He had to say something, do anything before what would happen would occur. “Wait!”

“Play!” A hysterical laugh echoed the play area as arcade machines exploded into flames one by one, down every line they were set up against. Children screamed as parents sobbed their names; the entire stage was put ablaze. A jester bounded upon the platform, standing in front of the fire that burned and cracked behind him. “Did I hear play!?” Quackerjack cackled once more, his laughs mixing into the screams of terror.

Chapter Text

“Launchpad, we have to—Launchpad?” Despite his attempts at dragging her along, the pilot had lost grip of the girl as soon as he had gotten it; she yelped as her arm twisted from the lost grip, igniting a passionate pain that she thought had been once long dead. The arcade had breathed a smokey maw within seconds of the explosions, as fires began to triple in size with every second. Gosalyn had lost Launchpad to the black fog, and felt a panic blossom in her chest that she knew all too well. Not again.

The girl glanced about her in a frenzy, before witnessing the pilot edging up the display stage, a dark outline behind a Quackerjack lighted visible by the fires. He had inched closer, his shape becoming lighter and larger.

Launchpad raised a loose board that had fallen from the roof amidst the chaos, just as Quackerjack inherited the instinct to turn around; the pilot smashed the heavy wood across the maddened face. Just as he had however, enough adrenaline had spiked through the jester’s arms to shove his attacker back. Launchpad’s feet danced to keep ground, but ultimately failed, landing him face-first into the floor. Pain inched up a now malformed ankle. He screamed; he had landed on a small fire that had jumpstarted just a minute before his fall. 

The board Launchpad had once yielded splintered upon impact, flying across the air and into the feeding hellfires. “You….little…. twit .” The jester bore what sounded to be a guttural growl. His eyes incubated a bloodthirsty sheen, ready to take a soul forcibly from a living body. A bruise had begun to trickle a river across the side of his head, as well as some blue patches around an eyeball. Quackerjack’s eyes flashed morbidly once he realized who had committed the blow. He cracked a slow, creasing, smile.

“Well well, if it isn’t one of the little robins of Dungwing.” Launchpad had rolled over now, but still clung to the patch of burnt skin that had bubbled across his arm, the sleeve that once covered it now charred and black. Launchpad’s spine tingled as the sound of the jester’s voice cracked in hearing; for a moment, he hadn’t believed it was really the toymaker speaking. “What’s it to you? And why here, why now!? All for a stupid game?”

Launchpad uttered another cry as the jester stomped on the duck’s twisted leg. “Video game!? You think this is about a video game !?” The pilot could only stare, as the evergrowing fires danced lights on Quackerjack’s clammy face; why else would he have come to a Whiffle Boy showcasing if it wasn’t for Whiffle Boy? That’s not his style. The thought bloomed gloomily. None of this screams Quackerjack, not one bit. He attempted to swing his other leg at his opponent, only for the clown to heave his entire body weight on the crippled one. Agonized tears stun Launchpad's eyes for a moment. 

“My own team kicked me to the curb, all because of you- ” Quakerjack had raised his leg for half a second only to smash down on Launchpad’s. “And you’re stupid -” A second smash. “ -heros! ” The third came down the hardest. It was then followed by a swift kick of a free leg to the pilot’s jaw, jerking his skull against the burning floor; Launchpad’s head began to pound with a sudden headache. 

Quackerjack yelped as he felt something collide with the back of his own skull, cranking his neck to see what had caused his pain. Gosalyn threw another Whiffle Boy helmet at the jester’s head, making sure he was kept off his guard. The once dull pain in her arm from her previous skirmish now raged a storm, but in the face of danger, she hardly noticed. The toymaker snarled, and wouldn’t with a second guess burn that little girl alive among the hideous flames that pinnacled their fight. 

“Woodchuck’s honor!” Little Louie had spiked a trash can lid, giving Quackerjack another bump to his now aching head. The toymaker roared, as he stashed a hand up his sleeve to grab hold of whatever parlor trick, wannabe toy he wanted to whiz out at the young boy. It had bought Launchpad enough time to grab the psycho from behind. Quackerjack screeched, thrashing violently to throw off his shadow attacker.

Scrooge McDuck was getting too old for this. What was supposed to be a fun family get-together had turned into a nightmarish trauma; the old duck could only thank himself for not letting Webby tag along. 

He had been standing next to one of the arcade’s that had blasted first, sending him dancing and spiraling against the building’s decaying wall. His shoulder spiked a burning affliction, like a needle that had hammered its way to the bone. “ Curse me kilts !” Scrooge had been lucky enough to have uttered enough breath to form those words, words that had trembled a hoarse terror. The explosions never ceased, and the screams rose to a deafening shrill of a treble cleft. Scrooge could hardly even see the fires through all the black smoke that had engulfed the whole building. 

“ Boys?!” He held a now scourged shoulder, wafting and wavering through the eerie dark, never breathing in unless it was to call out. A woman had dashed past him, or rather into him, knocking them both skittering across the floor. 

And when his head hit the ground was when Scrooge’s world went black. 

“We can’t leave without them!” Dewey had been staring gun barrels at his red-color-coordinated brother. “We can’t stay either, besides it’s what Unca Scrooge would want us to do!” The exit sign had glowed an ominous rose, a dim candlelight at the end of an endless void that was the burning building. It was right there, they could leave right now . Why couldn’t his brother understand that?

“What’s with you!? You’re never like this!” Dewey waved his arms like a maddened goose, narrowing his fiery eyes now dully. “This better not be about Launchpad again!” Huey’s heart sank, but not without a bloody fight. “Do you really think this is the time!?”

“I don’t know, you tell me Dr. Doomsday!” 

“You don’t even know who that is!” 

The two boys squealed, reeling each other into their arms as a beam from above came crashing down in a fiery blaze, three steps from where they stood. “ We need to get outta here !” The boy in red began to make a mad dash for the back exit, dragging his brother’s arm right along with him; Dewey ripped away, pacing backward toward the mess Huey was so eager to leave behind. “ Fine . But I’m staying . I’m going back for Louie and Unca Scrooge!” Before Huey could mumble his tongue to form a “wait,” Dewey had already vanished. His legs turned to stone, and in spite of the flames eating around him, Huey went cold. 

He began tracing back after his brothers. 

Launchpad wailed as Quackerjack began to taste blood. He released his once pearly whites from his victim’s hand, spitting out the red residue it left behind; the pilot clutched the wound, grinding his teeth while landing on shaking knees. The jester swung a hard kick into the duck’s torso, pinning him to the ground once again. 

Both Louie and Gosalyn had uttered the same cry: “Launchpad!”  

Launchpad.

Darkwing Duck had awoken.

I need L.P.

The duck choked on air, bolting upright in a sweaty mattress that had been a far cry from Bushroot’s greenhouse. His head spun. His eyes danced along with blinding fireflies. His heart pounded and everywhere hurt. It hurt so much. 

He collapsed back down.

His bones creaked beneath him, as a gust of pain hit him like a smoke bomb. His chest wheezed for air it couldn’t capture and his face hurt. It hurt so much. 

The room began to fade to black.

No .

Darkwing shot open his eyes a second time, watching the ceiling as it began to dance. 

Gizmoduck had already heard the explosion, but couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything. He couldn’t even speak honestly to Morgana and Stegmutt about his true intentions of perusing the city streets; he spoke of an alibi that it had been to search for ... .something. Something that the eggmen or any other of F.O.W.L’s goony agents could have left carelessly behind. It was a lie, and both he and they knew it.

Morgana had merely glared, while Stegmutt lost all hope in the way he looked at Fenton now. 

In another life, he may have cared. But after losing Gandra, nothing seemed to matter that much to him anymore. Gizmoduck gazed blankly as police cruisers and firetrucks blasted past him, up and down the road. Pretty soon news vans would be tailing them. He smiled grimly at the dumb thought. 

He hadn’t heard shouts that called his distant name. But he could have sworn the sound sounded familiar.

“...duck. Gizmoduck!” He barely realized a young boy had been shaking the waist of his armor, eyes laced with terror. Wait. He knew those eyes.

It was the same kid from the St. Canard Tower not long before, and he had been without his red-headed twin. “Huh?”

“The arcade, the arcade is on fire! Q-Quackerjack, Launchpad….th-they’re all still in there!” Tears stained Honker’s face now, his arms nothing but flimsy strings that refused to enter through the pin hole of a needle. “ Please, you ha-have to h-help them!” His voice echoed through in sobs, as he buried his face in his hands. “Gosalyn…” 

The sleep that once threatened to take hold of him had begun to dissipate in small breaths. The ceiling no longer danced, but it still shimmered and slithered across his cold, arctic eyes. Launchpad needs to know. The whole thing was a setup.

But Launchpad was dead.

The thought hit him like a frying pan. Then, like an undying avalanche, his memories all came crashing down. All of them, they were all gone . There was nothing in this city, not anymore. 

He had failed to be its one and only hero. 

Darkwing staggered to his feet; he froze. Echoes of voices he could barely put faces to for the moment had shimmied down the halls, almost like arguing. Whoever they were couldn’t know he was awake, that much Darkwing knew. 

Tentatively, he rested himself back against the mattress, but still allowed his eyes to adjust to his surroundings. It was one of Megavolt’s old hideouts, his apartment nonetheless. This would only complicate things. 

But what was Darkwing Duck if not complicated?

Not even in her dreams could her mind conjure up such a sight. Launchpad curled up into a painful ball, a mad jester leering over her with merciless intent, and her father nowhere in sight. Gosalyn felt her heart do the polka; Quiverwing Quack would have kicked the mad villain up where the sun didn’t shine, but even she had been nowhere. The young girl felt the heat behind her back grow large and sizzling. Either Quackerjack would have her or she’d fry to a crisp; there was no way out of it. 

At least, it would have been, if Scrooge’s nephew hadn’t been standing right beside her. Despite his tall posture, she caught flickers of his spine shivering. But it didn’t stop the courage from pooling through. “Y-You don’t scare us ! I’ve seen Yetis with bigger teeth than you!” Gosalyn had a hankering that the boy hadn’t been lying either. The clown’s bulging eyes casted a black look over the boy. “Oh really ?” 

“Yeah! And tell Bozo the Clown that this one’s for him !” Quackerjack yelped as one of the contesting televisions bashed him from the side. Louie lit up brighter than a turkey in a Thanksgiving oven. “Guys!” The three brothers clutched each other amidst the flames; Gosalyn had begun her way to a writhing pilot. Dewey’s eyes popped out of his head, as he soon heard reality call back to him from the blazing grave. “Hey! Wait up!” The three of them bounded after the mysterious girl. 

Sweet dickens, the boy hadn’t been lying. The old arcade place had been a blazing inferno, with black smoke that smothered the skies. Gizmoduck could hardly believe where his head was before; he was needed here. He casted a shadowed look down at Honker, who clutched his arms as if to brace another blast to the face. “Do not fret, little one, Gizmo-duuuck is here now.” 

Honker could only watch as the so-called hero of Duckburg rushed through St. Canard’s burning doors. 

Now with a side that bleated ache, the jester began his stumble through the rubble. His fun, they always had to ruin his FUN! Whether it be heroes, little rugrats, or those idiots he used to call friends. Everything was always oh so wrong when he was having FUN . So, it was more than safe to say that he hadn’t regretted what he did to that stupid pilot, if he could even call himself one. If anything, he deserved it . 

Oh, just wait until Mr. Banana Brain heard about this one. He’d be in for one heck of a laugh. 

Whether it be by miracle chance or just plain old dumb luck, the exit way both Huey and Dewey had stood before minutes ago was still left untouched. And Quackerjack wasted no time in getting to it.

Just as he pressed himself against the door, feeling the cool breeze of the rain outside, Quackerjack still dared to look back at the mayhem he had caused. He couldn’t help but to see the outlines of Negaduck’s face among the flames, grinning back at him with tasteless delight. It was clear, even to this psycho, that the malicious duck had put him up to this.

But as to what ends and means, Quackerjack had no clue. It didn’t matter, because he probably failed whatever it was Negaduck had wanted of him. 

Little did the jester know, that Negaduck would have been more than satisfied with Quackerjack’s efforts.

“Submit, you scoundrel, for Gizmoduck has arrived!” The armoured duck had begun blasting the fires that had ravaged its occupants, giant hoses jutting and swinging from the back of his chalky suit. His soul fractured as he looked to the floor. “Egads, McDuck!?” Lo and behold, the richest duck in the world, in the flesh, laid sprawled before the floors of Gizmoduck. Fenton had wasted no time in attending to him, scanning for possible burns or skirmishes. 

“Eh…?” The older duck began to creak his eyelids, as his breathing began to heave more deeply; Gizmoduck propelled a small fan above them, in fear that Scrooge would have choked and died in the smoke. “Mr. McDuck? Are you alr-”

“Well look at what the cat dragged in.” Scrooge’s words had spat venom, as his once bleary eyes stoned in a sudden spite. Fenton had begun to wish the old duck might have choked. 

It would be another two hours before the flames had finally settled, and far more before the air quality returned to its natural graces. Detectives ran scans of the crime scene, as other officers and firefighters looked for trapped victims and spitting fire remnants. Ambulances had blasted lights that would have lit up a whole town like a Christmas season. But most importantly, no lives were sacrificed.

The rain had ceased, as the clouds in the sky began to part to make ways for a bright light on such a bleak afternoon. Launchpad flashed his eyes shut, his chest and face still burning from the ashes he had been breathing in. When he opened them again, paramedics surrounded them with their nonsensical questions and vital scans. The duck’s head throbbed with a sudden terror. Gos. I have to find Gos. I can’t lose her too. The pilot had attempted to shove the medics away from his vicinity in attempts to rise, but had been bitterly denied such escape. Launchpad still resisted until he gave in to sleep. 

Meanwhile, Gizmoduck was faced with a worse shrilling lecture than his mother would have ever pitched to him as a little boy. “ Where in the blazes have you been!? ” Despite previous appearances, Scrooge had been more chipper than his younger years; terrific. “McDuck, I-”

“I ought to fire you for having left Duckburg as long as you did!”

“Would you just-”

“Out of all the nutty, idiotic, antics you’ve pulled, this is-” Scrooge had paused his frantic pacing, inhaling a sharp breath. “For the love of me number one dime, lad, explain this to me. ” Gizmoduck had not been prepared for the sight he was forced to witness; a dark frown on his employer's face with eyes that spoke of a deep seated depression. “Launchpad….that’s hard enough. But you I expected more of.”

The three boys could only watch helplessly as their beloved uncle tore their beloved hometown hero to pieces. Dewey had made the quaint observation: “This is sad.” Huey reflected his brother’s remorse like a mirror reflects a rainbow. “Yeah, no kidding..” The red brother flicked his eyes towards the brother of blue. “You kind of have to admit though….he had it coming.” 

 For once, Louie had been the odd one out; his eyes were set on that girl. Another boy, who looked about his own age, had held her arm in a consult on the curb of the driveway. He parted from his brothers, whom barely took notice of his departure.

“Hey…” The boy looked up, the girl didn’t. Louie cracked a smile, despite the morbid air that taunted him not to. “You were pretty cool back there….that helmet must have been heavy.” The red-head anchored up her lime eyes to the lime-outfitted boy; they spoke of a cruel desolation. Louie cleared his throat. “Are your folks here yet?” The other boy's eyes flashed at the question, but the girl narrowed at them.

Nice going dummy, they were probably in that building.

“Heh heh….nevermind.” 

“How do you know him?” Louie blinked. “Huh?” The girl began to straighten, but her lips remained straighter. “Launchpad. You know him. How?”

Louie felt a bulge lump in his throat, like a piece of coal wedged in a rusted pipe.“Well, I guess I should ask you the same.”

Spike was about ready to bite off my foot when the first hour passed, grunting and chomping furiously in his bashful rage. My greenhouse wasn’t the “wishful” location to be hiding a previous hostage, so Megavolt offered--well, moreso Liquidator demanded--that we cruise Darkwing to his apartment. The place was small, danky, and just plain odd. I knew where the rat lived, I’ve just never really chosen to step foot in his abode. 

My little plant chomper was aggravated by the fact that he was awoken from his usual midday napping session; with everything that was going on, I didn’t wish to risk leaving Spike behind at home, especially when someone could barge in during his lazy guard duty. I worried for him, not just because he was my plant, but about the only friend I might ever get. I bluntly ignored him chomping on my legs, trying to inflict any sort of nerve he could have on me.

“Ever heard of organization? Tidiness? If not, buy the newest brand, because boy do you need it!” Liquidator had stood in front of the small window, where the dusk light crystalized through his liquid form; small shards of color reflected through him and into the apartment, giving the place more life than it deceivingly had.  The rat clenched his jaw, side glaring at the dog. “I’m not the one who offered to be a hideout. You got what you came for.”

“This is indeed not what I paid for.” Megavolt was prepared to make a snotful remark, but then thought best of it after taking a hard look into Liquidator’s brutish gaze. He quietly mumbled under his breath, but it was even behind my hearing. “When I ever get the time, I’ll be sure it’s to your liking , sir.” Liquidator smirked at the sarcasm; sometimes, I’m pretty sure he only picked on Megavolt just to have fun with him, even if it had seemed like cat and mouse. 

If there was more conversation, I blocked it out of my attention span, when I caught a small subtle move out of the corner of the room. Previously what was Megavolt’s bed, placed...erm…”neatly” in his kitchen, was Darkwing. Bandaging had been wrapped tightly around his arm--to my handmanship--where the F.O.W.L contraption had been. Other than that, his wounds had hardly any healing from lack of true medical attention. It might have just been me worrying, but his face looked paler than when I found him, a sickly one. The shape of his face was shallow and thin, his features looking sunken and deprived of true life.  Looking at him in such a way made something in the pits of me--something I never knew existed--cracked and ached. I tried to rip myself away, but stopped; was he looking at me?

The duck’s eyes looked even colder than how I must have felt; his mercy and pride was stripped from him like a chisel to a stone, while his eyes were glazed over from what I can only imagine was the agony he had felt. He looked at me straight in the face, contorted his expression as if a realization hit him, then turned his head the other way: he must have recognized me. 

I slowly approached, and making sure Megavolt and Liquidator were still busy with a tedious bicker, I spoke in a hushed voice over the vigilante. “I’m here to help, I took you away from Bulba. I did it because you would do the same.” Darkwing hadn’t said a response for about a minute, before giving a quiet groan, confirming he had indeed heard my words. I would never know whether he was willing to submit himself to me out of failure, or really did believe me, but I suppose that didn’t matter. 

I frowned subtly, patting his shoulder lightly. I’m sorry, for everything. “That can’t be who I think it is…” Summoned by the dangerous tone in Megavolt’s words, I retreated from the bed and rejoined my trio; the television that had been propped by an old, pizza stained box had flashed bold headlines before my eyes.

“Indeed folks, just a few moments ago, the dangerously known Quackerjack had set the St. Canard’s grand arcade opening ablaze. During the newest video game demonstration, where children and adults alike attended, the jester began a raging fire from within. Luckily, all survivors were safe, aside from a few wounded.”

“It is also drastically unclear what his intentions for the fire were: was there a certain victim in mind, to capture the missing Darkwing Duck’s attention, or was it just a plain murderous attempt at wreaking havoc? Stay tuned to our broadcast to know more, as police officers investigate the escaping criminal.”

“The odds have seemingly stacked against us for our precautionary actions.” 

“You mean your actions, I wasn’t the one that tipped him off.” Liquidator spiked a look at the rat, who interestingly gazed back. I must have been so furious that it scared Spike away from chewing on me any longer, and brought his attention back to Darkwing in the corner. “Don’t you guys see what he’s trying to do!? He’s bringing attention to himself, which means he brings attention to us, then our little dilemma !” I gestured at the bed, as the two of them met eyes with me. “It’s like half of you guys don’t even know what the definition of a secret means. I reached out to get help, not because we’re some “comrade” or “ally,” but because you're friends! Family! People who I’m supposed to depend on! The only ones who have ever proven that to me were Spike and Darkwing Duck!” 

I heaved a rattling breath, glancing to look at the two said individuals in the background: Spike gazed upon me with a curiously sensitive look, while the duck himself once again met with my gaze, listening to every word. I then turned to the window, as the setting sun burned my every desire into a raging, effortless, flame that could burn for infinity. “Maybe that’s why I wanted to help, because Darkwing was the thing that brought people together. He’s saved children so they could come back to their mothers, or even saved children from their mothers. As aggravating as it was, he brought the Justice Ducks together. As hilarious as it is, he was able to unite the whole world into thinking he was some weird guy in a purple costume, or a concession man, or a burglar. He was even able to unite us. The Fearsome Five….save for two members.” 

“Can you really hate him that much , even after everything he was willing to sacrifice? For and against us ?  Quackerjack may think differently, but I see myself in Darkwing. Neither of us are respected in this city, hero or not. By letting him die in that sewer was like letting me die.” 

The room seemed to shiver under my sudden humanity, bouncing off the coarse walls as the news channel blared meekly in the backdrop of it all. Realizing how critical my bold stand had been made, I felt a familiar tension creep up my spine. It spiked, burned, and cracked my senses. I don’t even know if this makes me a good hero, or an awful badguy. Perhaps that was the very thought Darkwing had to tackle everyday. 

I left that room colder than when I came into it.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know what to think; nothing made sense. But then again, when had it at all recently? He didn’t know exactly what he expected, but Darkwing surely wasn’t anticipating that his worst enemies would have been the ones to have taken him captive in a makeshift refuge. 

Enemies. What a funny little word in this funny little world. 

Everyone was his enemy now.

But even with that thought, Darkwing wasn’t so sure of it anymore. Who are you kidding, it’s all a trick. You know it, and you should have known it from the beginning. “Bushroot’s” kindness and compassion had been nearly unruly; he had given his heart out to the other two heartless monsters, and to what end? Was it for a show? Had they known Darkwing was watching them? They want me to trust him. “Bushroot,” specifically .

But why?

The duck was almost afraid to move this time; a slumbering “Spike” had been curled in front of the mattress he was secluded on. But he would need to, in order to figure out what the hay was going on. Pins and needles sliced through his abdomen as he slowed into a sitting position, careful as not to clink any of the mattresses’ old springs. He flicked an eye at the plant monstrosity beneath him; he bit a cheek. 

“Spike” moaned in the land of pleasant dreams.

Minute by minute, Darkwing slowly inched toward the foot of the bed until he was able to let his legs hang above the floor. Quiet mumbles and growls of a verbal squabble drifted through the thin walls that were the apartment. 

“How long are we going to have to do this whole charade? I’ve got things to do!”

“Patience is key to any successful endeavor worth the undertaking.” 

“Yeah? Tell that to Billy .”

“Who?”

“The microwave, who else?” A period of silence ran its marathon. “Don’t listen to him, Billy. I wouldn’t ever forget you, unlike some people. ” 

Well he sounded like Megavolt, but Darkwing wasn’t buying it. He wouldn’t be the fool in this dance again. Regardless, it hadn’t answered the question of why they were seemingly guarding him. The aqueous canine and nutty rat had been out of sight anyhow, which gave Darkwing a window of time. 

A flash of cold ran up his legs as he stood, while his hips and back creaked and swayed unsteadily; when had been the last time he was standing? Apparently long, as he began stumbling into a toddler’s walk, losing balance before he found a wall to hold it. He corked another look at “Spike,” who was still sleeping like a baby. 

Everything, it hurt. It hurt so much. 

Darkwing continued stumbling, but with amateur stealth. He had crossed into the living room now, where the television that no one had bothered to flick off continued to ramble. Something about some Whiffle Boy game.

As if this were a time for games.

When he hadn’t caught glimpse of “Liquidator” or “Megavolt,” he continued his listless walk across what seemed to him to be a living area. I need to find hi—-- it . Better to not think in such personal pronouns. It would be easier that way. 

With a ravenous urgency, Darkwing’s stomach began to lurch from the inside; he hadn’t remembered the last time he ate either. But the hunger came back to eat him instead, tearing and gnashing its teeth through his thoughts like a feral animal; he bit a knuckle to keep control. 

Why, why did it have to hurt so much?

He felt a cry form a bulge in his throat, but he gagged it back down like it was an upchuck. No, there was time for grief later. He had to finish what he had started. I’ll find it. If it’s so eager to help me, I’ll find it and make it take me back. Back where it all started . 

Darkwing smiled, for the first time in who knew how long. But it wasn’t for the reasons one may have expected. He dashed a hand under his battered, lavender, suit, (brushing past a chain hung limply around his neck, hidden from view, but he barely acknowledged it) and revealed parts of a disassembled gun. His gas gun. If there was one thing S.H.U.S.H did right, it was by giving him witty gadgets. With a few hurried clicks, his trusty hand was back in his fingers. Darkwing casted a look toward his left; a doorway had been open to him. Inside was the insidious, green….. thing .

He’d have to play along for now, play it at its own game. It wouldn’t know what Darkwing already knew at this point, not if he revealed it too soon. And if there was one thing he knew the real Bushroot always fell for, it was empty threats.

Click .

I wasn’t so sure if I had heard that from the other side of the world or if it was inches from my head. “Don’t move. Unless you like the smell of weed killer, that is.” The voice had been undoubtedly the wounded avenger himself….but it wasn’t. There was too much venom in his threats, too much gravity that weighed on his blunted words. There wasn’t an ounce of even confidence or boisterous self-assurance in his voice, but rather the absence of any emotion. It’s a strange thought, I know, but the voice seemed to have grown from something that may have rotted not too long ago. 

The real nightmare was his eyes though. With the self-preservation of a goldfish, I titled a head at my offender; Darkwing’s knuckles paled from their once bruised tones, the joints in his fingers cracking as he tightened his grip around that handle of a…..was that his gas gun? His stare could have stifled all whistles of what I knew to be Mother Nature, with a cold kind of malice that aired the threat of uncertainty. I wanted to believe, dreadfully, that there may have been a slight chance Darkwing had been bluffing; I couldn’t find any firm ground for that chance to stand on. 

“N-Now, no need to get hasty. I can explain-”

“I don’t want an explanation.” Nothing but the duck’s lips moved on his face, not even to seemingly blink. I, in my comedic contrast, had. “...you…you don’t.”

“I want you to take me back. Back from wherever you found me.” The purple menace began to make slow strides, never once lowering the gas gun I never remembered finding on Darkwing’s person. The barrel of said gun began to enlarge into a deeper black abyss with every inch it drew closer; the back of my neck twitched.

“...but why? I…I got you out of there to get you away from-”

“I’m not going to repeat a second time.” I saw nothing but that barrel now, with Darkwing not too far behind it. Finally, the duck’s face did move, but only to mimic a scowl. “I’m giving you a choice. Don’t make the stupid one.” Well, so much for that rule. I broke it the moment I decided to save this psycho’s tailfeathers. I couldn’t even gut a scream before Darkwing wrung an arm around my neck, the barrel now pressing against my jittering head; before me laid Megavolt caught in mid-stealth.

But…how had he known? Darkwing had been looking at me the whole time, I had the future nightmares to prove it. Heck, I hadn’t even seen Megavolt before now. As if reading my thoughts, the rat provided more of a grimace of annoyance than one of compassionate terror for, what I erroneously thought, was supposed to be his friend.

Geez, love you too Sparky.

“I oughta call you Negaduck for such a break of character, Dolt-wing . In case you couldn’t tell, Bushy here was the one you should be kissing up to. He saved you, however that much is really worth.”

“I know that.”

Megavolt faltered, but it wasn’t long before it was replaced by his signature scoff. “Theeen mind explaining?” Not that I could see it, but I could hear the teeth that grinded in the duck’s jaw at Megavolt’s remark, question, whatever he was trying for it to be. “ I have nothing to explain to you .” His voice was dark and throaty, and even now I could imagine the fires of that arcade dancing before his demented patience. Megavolt narrowed his eyes, and whistled out a stagnant proposition. “You’re all bark and no bite, huh?” The rat shook his head, clicking a tongue. “Buster, I’ve known you since my prom , and this is nothing like you. Heroes are supposed to be so honest and good-mannered and yadda yadda yadda…” That narrow behind his goggles came back like a drop of a mask. “....so what the heck is this? Huh? You trying to pull my leg here?”

I felt Darkwing shudder, but his arm began to close on my neck. 

“I mean, you didn’t even come in with that stupid intro of yours this time! The terror that farts… or whatever.” The rat gave a dismissive wave, uncaring for the stakes that he was raising. If I had ever gotten out of this alive, I was gonna strangle that dope myself.

  It felt colder than the bottom of an arctic ocean; the wind snapped and heckled the four of them, but even without it both her and Gizmoduck still would have felt that shiver through their bones. She didn’t want to believe it, she couldn’t. That couldn’t have been her Dark up on that bulky ventilation shaft, with a helpless woman strangling in his arms. Gizmoduck couldn’t either, but mostly out of the plain and selfish thought that he didn’t think he’d ever see Gandra Dee again. 

Darkwing never let go of his grip, ensuring Gandra’s leather-bounded legs stayed hanging over the shaft, a lame but seemingly effective attempt to prevent her height from lifting him up in the air at a disadvantage. The woman uttered and swallowed sobs, a sight Fenton also didn’t think he’d ever have to witness. But neither he nor Morgana could move; one step forward would tempt Darkwing to take one step backward and into the city-scape below, with an innocent screaming in his grip. 

Dark had looked twenty years older, with a complexion paler than Morgana’s own, and eyes that spoke of a ghastly tragedy. He never looked her way, but instead kept his point of prey on Gizmoduck. Fenton could only utter a short breath: “Dear mother, he’s gone mad.” 

A flash of light had changed the scene, along with the sound of thunder.

She stood before Gizmoduck now, but he had been battered badly. Bits and chunks of his once pristine chest piece had been blasted off, blasted off by her . And she was glad too; she had managed to chip the right half of his visor, revealing a murderous eye that had reddened around the rims. He grinned with a sick displeasure, jutting out what must have been the rest of his gizmos from his suit: cannons, missiles, lasers, you name it. “Bring it on, you hag.” 

“Wake up!” Morgana clamored her neck from the back rest of the chair she had dozed off on; she was met with Stegmutt’s contorted face. For a moment, she thought she had seen Gizmoduck’s—-or what was left of Gizmoduck’s shatteringly sane—-visage, and prepared to blast it into next Tuesday. Eek had flailed and squealed from behind her, warning her not to; thank goodness she had listened. 

“He called, Gizmoduck called! He-”

Gizmoduck, oh how she hated that name now.

“-said the arcade blew up! It’s all over the news!” The reptile hunched over in a defeated surrender to his internal terror, glancing out the large windows of the Darkwing Tow-…..the Audubon Bay Bridge. “I hope they’re all okay…” The hope had been disguised under a ring of grief.

They. Launchpad and Gosalyn were the “they.” Morgana felt all the blood drain from her body. But how, why ? It had only been a matter of days after the incident at the St. Canard Tower, and now this?

Were they connected? The witch didn’t know, but nor did she care at the moment. She didn’t care for the dream, nightmare, vision….. whatever that thing was that she had witnessed upon her slumber. She didn’t care about the papers she had been leafing through before she fell into her drowse, the papers found strewn up across the walls of the secluded little room of the lair where they had found Steelbeak and his men. She didn’t even care that the arcade had blown up. She didn’t care about any of that now, no matter how dire the clues were, clues hidden behind the dark curtains of some twisted mind.

The only thing that mattered was Gosalyn. 

Both of me and Megavolt screamed as we commenced a tango, ripping each other onto the floor as Darkwing darted for a nearby window, but not before bashing out a lightbulb that had been the only thing lighting that whole room.

“SAAAALLLYYY!!” The rat strained and thunked me thoughtlessly aside, crawling pathetically to the smashed bits of glass that were only made visible by scarce moonlight. “Don’t worry, baby, Daddy’s here!” I heard Spike screech against the floorboards behind me, grunting and snapping his jaws in irritable stress. I would have tried my hand at going after Darkwing, if my delightful little friend hadn’t bounded onto me in his excitement. 

The air was hot, heavy, and smoldering, a thick night indeed. The duck had been pressed against the edge of the building, steadying himself only on the next window sill over from the one he slipped through. He would have been jumping for the third if “Liquidator” hadn’t greeted him. The canine had drifted up from seemingly the bottom of the street, stretched longer than putty to meet the duck face-to-face. “Going somewhere? A need for speed, perhaps? I may have the remedy!” 

“Cork it, Aquafina.” Darkwing raised the gas gun at the same moment “Liquidator” raised an eyebrow. “In bluntness, I would have thought Fiji.” The duck’s chest began to heave as his eyes began to fail him, the sky spinning around the waterous fiend’s face; he felt that chain again, patting against his chest from underneath his turtle neck. “Liquidator” had held a quiet head portrait, with an odd contentment in his swirling eyes, while the moonlight blared through him like a white flashbeam. “Not everything is as it seems, my dear competitor.”

Don’t I know it.

Darkwing had flashed his eyes back to the ground; it was a stupid risk, but it was better than being in this thing’s grasp. If anything, he had Launchpad to blame for his eager bravado about surviving such a fall.

Launchpad.

No, there was time for grief later.

“Liquidator” reeled in astonishment as the duck took his dive, hardly itching the thought across his brain to catch the escapee before it was too late.

“I’ve heard of him, but I didn’t think that was why Launchpad left.” 

“He was sworn to secrecy, sir.” So had Gizmoduck, by affiliation, but he thought better than to make light of that fact. Besides, he was sure to get his own earful once the pilot caught wind of this conversation. The sun had laid to rest long ago, which had left the two lone ducks outside of a brightly lit ice cream parlor; Scrooge thought it was best to treat the boys after everything they went through, and thus, gave himself the advantage of some good thinking time about recent events. He had brought a young girl—whom Fenton had explained was Gosalyn—-along with upon the insistence of Louie. The young boy she had also been with tagged along, against the betterment of the old coot’s wishes. 

“And ye say this Dogwig fellow-”

“Darkwing.”

“Same bozo—he went missing ?” Scrooge’s voice became thick, as if sandwiched between accusation and confusion, along with the added condiment of bitter resentment. Gizmoduck titled his head downward more surely, reflecting the soft amber glows that emitted from the parlor windows behind the old duck’s back. “I would think you had caught wind of some of the news.” Even in those first few weeks, when he hadn’t yet left Duckburg upon Darkwing’s departure, St. Canard’s business had been everyone’s cup of tea. 

Scrooge sharpened a frown. “You oughta know me better than paying another dime to those snakes they call cable networks .”

“But you have television, don’t you?”

“Only when Webby gives me a run for me pity.” For a moment, Fenton could hardly believe his tv-loving mother ever had a fling with such a miser. Upon remembering the thought, he held back the urge to gag .

Scrooge, in opposition, tapped a stiff finger against his cane, giving it a pensive look. “Aye, this whole thing makes my head twirl.” He rubbed his eyes between two fingers as if to prove a point. “Imma go and see if they won’t let me in to see Launchpad.”

“What will you do if they don’t?”

Scrooge flicked a bull’s eye, the grooves under them deepening in the shadows of the night. “I’ll sue the wee pennies out of their sorry hides.”

“You lost him!?” Spike had been brooding in the corner, which had been much greatly attributed to my outburst with him moments before. Megavolt worked tirelessly to reglue what was left of “Sally,” but I had Liquidator’s eyes. The canine in question held his hands in a “not-so-sorry” apology. “No refunds!”

Even in the darkness of the room, I could see the small twitch of that rat’s smile paving way. “Serves him right anyway. I hope he’s flatter than a tire, that son of-” Megavolt trapped his mouth shut with bullets as soon as he lifted his head to meet my eyes; silently, he went back to gluing. “You didn’t help it either!”

“Oh, sorry for not letting him melt your leafy brains….” The rat narrowed a look, his fingers moving with more jags of tension than smooth sweeps of grace. “....if he even had the guts to. Lying oaf.” I clutched my head foliage from the stupidity and fright of it all; since when did Darkwing ever take a hostage ? In all my years of fighting the guy, that was a new trick in an old game everyone thought they knew the rules to. 

If he even had the guts to. Lying oaf.

I couldn’t help but think Megavolt’s spiteful words rang no better than if it had been a liberty bell.  

The only time Darkwing really would have “lied” would be the times he was inflating himself—but even then, he believed he was the best face to have ever graced photographers. It wasn’t so much lying as it was a delusion. 

Delusion. Now that was a funny word. In this funny little…

…world.

I couldn’t quite place my finger as to why, but I didn’t like that phrase. Not one bit. It felt a premonition of sorts, a sense of deja vu if you will. But deja vu to what—or who —I couldn’t ever tell. I balled my hands into fists, feeling the band of trepidation tighten around my chest, like a rubber ball shoved down a straw. “Well then, we’re going after him.” 

Liquidator dropped his face into a slack, as Megavolt spiked feverish eyes. “ We? He got away . He’s not our problem anymore.”

“Maybe not ours , but it’s still mine .” I began the most confident stride that I hadn’t remembered mustering since my first science breakthrough, back at my days in St. Canard University. Wringing my flappy hands over the windowsill, I gazed down into the dark abyss that was the street; small sparkles of streetlights danced below me like stars. “I couldn’t care more if you guys are with me or against me anymore….”

I made a slow swing back around, and this time I dangled Liquidator’s leadership collar over his head, awaiting for his time to take the bait or leave it to dry. “....but if he’s still out there, and I know he is, then I’m going after him.”

Chapter Text

He didn’t think a house could ever look so dejected; the lights that once lit up the driveway through its warm windows were now dead and cold. It sank under the sundering humidity that was the still night, with hardly a gentle breeze to offer relief from its smother. Yet, all the same, Darkwing couldn’t help but feel nostalgic, evocative of the very house he still owned. He almost dreaded having to enter it, despite its lonely presence from the lack of occupants. 

The duck’s brain snapped in two as he took a hard whiff of a sudden stench, his stench (of a heart most probably.) He had landed in a dumpster truck following his fall, and aside from a few bruises and a smell nearly foul, Darkwing had turned fine out in the end. It took an hour before he came to the idea of returning “home,” and another thirty minutes or so until he finally reached his destination. 

Well, here he was. So what now. Whatever happened to returning to the scene of the horrendous crimes he was submitted to? He had wanted to find Bulba, to get even , but realized how stupid of an idea that would be. He nearly killed me the first time, and here I am wanting to run back to him. So, he took a detour down memory lane. 

But why didn’t he kill him? He had every chance to. 

The arcane chain tugged at his feathers as he began his prowl toward the house; he’d have to get a look at what the thing was later, but later was not the now. He paused as he reached the steps, his silhouette a ragged horror against the wood of the door. A monster from underneath a child’s bed, waiting for the midnight hour to prompt his strike. He stared at it, then went around the back of the house.

If memory didn’t fail him, the kitchen had a window that had a stubborn latch; all he had to do was add much needed heave to snap it open. Drake had always swore and cursed himself for never getting the darn thing fixed, as it was always how Gosalyn sneaked out, but that didn’t matter to him much anymore. 

The frame shook as the window pane fought against gravity, and he slithered inside the dark shelter he used to call home. Memories bombed him like flashes of lightning, and for a moment he wasn’t in a cold, dark, house. He caught glimpses of Launchpad fumbling with the dishes, offering sheepish smiles as he broke the tenth plate that week. He saw Herb rummaging through his fridge, insisting that he needed a “light-snack” before Pelican’s Island came on for another re-run. 

He saw as his baby girl bounded up to him, a jovial smile dressing her face, a set of eyes filled with hope. Dad!

Darkwing wiped a tear that threatened to fall. 

It hurt, why did it have to hurt so much?

He began his soldier trudge through the living room and towards the front door he had loomed over darkly minutes ago; like a candle in a basement, the key shined against the shadows of the entrance, hanging patiently on the key-ring bolted against the wall. He snagged it, and carefully retraced back the way he came. 

Darkwing had initially wanted to retrieve the Ratcatcher, but he felt it would have whistled the red on him too soon; those….. things would have been trudging around his lair right now, rummaging through his belongings. So the duck took his dangerous chances taking his civilian car, which had still been parked neatly in the garage (he had hoped anyway, the key was still in the house so it must have been). All that was left now was to jam the key in, rev up the old Bessie, and hit the heck out of dodge.

And he would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for that darn “kid.”

As soon as he popped the garage door open, he felt eyes piercing the back of his neck; he flashed his head around, and was faced with the eyes of his spy. “Tank” had made the fatal mistake of taking out the garbage too late at night, and had now stood stone still as he watched what he must have thought was a theft take place. 

Darkwing bit his tongue so hard he thought he tasted blood. 

“Tank” nearly wet himself.

The “kid” began screaming as the dark figure bounded towards him at full speed, faster than a cheetah but blacker than a panther. “Tank” kicked his feet to the dirt, flailing up debris of dust and weeds, nearly falling as he did so. But it had been rather obvious who would be the winner out of this chase: a chubby looking kid at odds against a crime-fighting veteran. 

Darkwing, with surprising vigor despite his decrepit and dwindling form, smashed “Tank” against the side of the house, with fingers groped at his collar. The duck hanged over him, with eyes that traced the “child’s” face like it was prey ready for the snatching; one hooked talon was all it took to smash this fable of a rabbit. 

For certain, Darkwing now knew this couldn’t have been the Tank he understood the past few years. The Tank he knew wouldn’t have worn terror like the one before him did, eyes glossed with tears of cowardice, of timidity, of weakness. 

Darkwing growled. 

“W-Wait, I won’t tell anyone! I swear!” The “child” trembled under the duck’s gander; the dark avenger saw even that through the night’s welcoming shadows. Darkwing’s preying eyes turned to blue, cold, slits; he kept a realm of dangerous patience that, even this freak should know, never be tested. 

“Tank” grabbed uselessly at Darkwing’s knuckles, which only earned him another smack against the wall. “Give me one good reason why you won’t.” The two faces were now two breaths apart; “Tank” could have sworn he had smelled the bittersweet scent of insanity that oozed from his attacker’s hot wind. “Y-You’ll hurt me?” 

He’d do worse than that .

Darkwing’s face spiked an alarm; he hadn’t meant that. He wouldn’t kill anybody, in fact, he’d always be the one to save anyone. But then he remembered Gosalyn, and deduced that yes, yes he would. He’d do it for her.

“L-Look you know where I live, it’d be s-stupid if I did!” The “kid” clenched his eyes as the waterfalls began to tear through his shuddering visage. “P-Please, just let me go! I’ll….I’ll do anything you want, honest!” Darkwing began to hear shuffling from beyond the house’s walls, and a familiar voice of a mother calling for her son’s name. It would only be a matter of time before “Binkie” came around back and witnessed the crime—

—no, the retribution —

—that was taking place just outside of the house’s closed doors. 

Darkwing needed to be quick, and a touch of witty about this too. He couldn’t be seen, not now. Not while he had the element of surprise still by his side. “In three days, I’ll be back. And in those three days, I want you to place these around the city.” The duck revealed a handful of small metallic boxes, deceivingly simple looking despite their intended use. He dumped them into “Tank’s” trembling hands, still holding him by the side of one collar. “Click that button—see it?---and it’ll stick to anything. Particularly, I want them around the police station and S.H.U.S.H’s headquarters, just down the same street.” Despite his calming instruction, the black crusader’s voice remained husky and domineering. “If I don’t hear anything out of these, I’m coming back . If I catch a hint that a “little bird” said something he wasn’t supposed to, I’m coming back .” 

Darkwing leaned further to the face of his enemy, speaking hardly above a whisper. “ And if I come back after those three days to find out you’re not here, I’ll find you .” 

“Tank” whimpered.

“I’m alright Mr. McDee, just a few scrapes is all.” By the time Launchpad was allowed leave, the moon had begun to illuminate the dark streets, dancing shadows of trees and later-goers against the fresh pavement. The pilot teetered and wobbled as he kept steady on his crutches; it would be some time before his ankle could experience autonomy once again. And here, old Scroogey thought he was the one that needed his trusty, dandy, cane. “Aye, more than that , lad. Ye lucky you’ve kept your head.”

Not that Launchpad had one to begin with, but that was besides the point. 

Launchpad tossed his grimy hair, and attempted to peer through dry and cracked strands that still stuck to his face like wet honey. His chest heaved unsteadily like a broken tick of a watch; his gaze faked a sincere tranquility. “I appreciate you checking in on me, but I ought to get home.”

McDuck didn’t breathe, but he did offer a cajoling pair of eyes and tempo of tone. “There’s no need for that.” Launchpad frowned, his countenance losing all the fraudulent life it once harboured. “Look, McDee, I know you’re mad with me. But I need to get goi-”

“I know everything, so drop the tomfoolery, Launchpad.” The pilot’s eyes fogged a cloud of dismay. “....you do.”

“I know about the friend, yes.” In Scrooge’s mind, the term “friend” seemed to be a stretch on words; the way Fenton had explained it to him, Darkwing Duck and Launchpad McQuack were practically brothers separated from birth. They were two sides of the same penny, in lesser words, but that penny had been sliced in half. With the penny’s “tails” now forever lost, Launchpad’s “heads” had gone out the window and into the hole that was depression. It was like trying to watch one of Scrooge’s nephews play without the other two brothers to join in the fun; the playing became a desolate and lonely task despite the joy it once brought—anhedonia in its finest—- and Scrooge could only imagine the feeling must have been very similar to what Launchpad had to face; a crumbling St. Canard, without his lavender brother there to fight through it with him. 

Launchpad refused to look at the old duck. “Then you know I didn’t have much of a choice.” Scrooge fumed; the dunce did have a choice, the choice to reach out and tell him about this level of disparity. If anything, Scrooge practically owed Launchpad that sort of help; despite his foolishness in past endeavors, the pilot had—indirectly or not—saved his butt (for lack of a better term) on too many occasions. Scrooge wasn’t often an affectionate man, but he was still a respectable one. 

The old duck’s voice narrowed, as he gripped himself for the incoming storm that he knew would rip between the two of them. “And that’s why you're coming back with me to Duckburg.” 

Launchpad’s heart exploded.

And so had Darkwing Duck’s, on that same night. His car was nowhere to be found; at first he thought it had been from the lack of light in the garage, but as soon as he flicked them on, he realized his conundrum. But how? He had the keys in his hand!

Well, apparently those were house keys; the duck drew upon the grim memory that he had always kept a spare by the door. He held back every instinct and need to scream, kick, and cry at the garage walls. Those monsters knew he had been coming for the car, and now they were toying with him, teasing and testing just how far they could stretch him before Darkwing snapped into submission. 

But how did they know? That doesn’t make sense, how would they have known you were coming for the car? How do you know if any of this makes any darn sense: everything that S.H.U.S.H had done, that everyone you know has been replaced by some freak-holographic fiends—and what actually are they? Why would have S.H.U.S.H done it, if they did, and for what purpose? Why would they have done it to everybody but you? Why-

But it hurt too much to think about.

A wave of nausea hit him like a semi-truck, as well as the aches and pains that vibrated from his gut to his joints. What was the use of questioning anything, he was shown the evidence; that had been what it was, wasn’t it? He saw the details of the crimes S.H.U.S.H had committed in this city, that they were taking it under their rule for world domination, that they kept everything “normal” on the surface to avoid suspicion from neighboring cities. That was all the proof he needed, so there was no use playing “twenty-one questions” with it. It had happened, and Darkwing Duck needed to remedy the crime he helped penetrate by working for those malefactors. He just didn’t understand why they had waited for so long, and how they had done it so soon and seemingly overnight. 

Overnight didn’t seem too logical either—- his head began to pound again. 

No, it made perfect sense. It had to. He needed it to.

Darkwing slid his back down the wall, staring at the deathly bright light above him until he saw red and then blinked away from it; what was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t exactly needed the car, but it would have proved mighty useful to get around the city generally unnoticed (unless, he supposed, a police patroller decided to run the plates and realize it had been stolen, but that was a discussion for another day). Not only that, but those three goobers that wore the faces of his old foes were out there manhunting him now, and it would only be a matter of time before they informed the rest of whatever hive-mind that S.H.U.S.H had conjured. He was a rat backed into a corner of a maze, and there wasn’t a scent of cheese for miles. 

Negaduck brightened Darkwing’s dark mind. 

In all the excitement, he had practically forgotten the deal the devilish duck had struck with him. He could see his twisted face back in the shadows of that horrid room he had been locked in; he fleetingly remembered that he had been dragged through the St. Canard Tower to get there, but even that seemed like a fever dream.

“So you’re just going to leave , with everything as it is now?” It had only been minutes, but it registered more concretely as years in both Stegmutt and Morgana’s minds, before Gizmoduck had called back on the radio he had left them with, upon his departure earlier that day. He gave quick coordinates, but when he had gotten no response, he translated the coordinates into street names. It had still taken them a bit before they had found the (graciously) 24-hour ice cream parlor the tin-hero identified, but it had taken both McDuck and McQuack just the same amount of time to walk back with Launchpad’s crutches. The two parties conjoined on that street, uncaring for onlookers and their odd glances. 

Launchpad could only return a sheepish face at Morgana’s ridicule. “When Mr. McDee’s got his heart on something, there ain’t no shaking it.” He made a lame attempt at a humorous air as he spoke, but he only had received a cold stare as a response. The pilot ran a hand through his singed hair that seemed duller in color by the day. “Look, I wanna go after Quackerjack, Steelback, and all that as much as you do! But I can’t say no to this.”

“So you’ll say no to Dark?” 

“That’s not what I-”

“You’re just going to leave Gosalyn without a word? Without an explanation?” Launchpad began to grip his crutches; he wasn’t always around when Morgana and Drake had their quarrels, but he had seen enough to know to never get on the ghoul’s bad side. Despite his rising terror, he kept a constant voice. “I was gonna tell her. Actually, I was gonna ask her.” 

Morgana gave pause, and Launchpad was finally offered leeway to finish his thought. 

He looked back at the parlor with a set of sad and old eyes; Gosalyn had been budding rather close to Louie, likely ranting about the newest toy or whatever kids talked about these days (boy was he getting in his years). The ignorant pilot realized how truly blissful ignorance could be, especially for a kid that had to tackle everything in life as much as Gosalyn did. In a small way, he envied her childhood. “I was gonna ask if she wanted to go with me or you.” 

“I’ll strike a deal with you, buckaroo.” 

Darkwing couldn’t remember if he had been a duck or a goose, if the sky was yellow or purple, heck, he couldn’t even remember his name for a few seconds. Regardless, the duck draped in yellow continued his long pace, skimming his eyes deliciously across the walls of the useless notes and files his nemesis had been so eager to hang. Darkwing remained slouched in the corner, ironically, where his lost hat would later make home in; it sat in his lap now, as a relic of a past life. When Negaduck turned back around to face him under the single light, he had hardly been fazed by Darkwing’s zombified gaze. 

“I’ll do it, because I’d like to think we’re two birds of the same feather. Get me?”

Get what, the mail? Had Darkwing checked the mail that day? He couldn’t remember. He smiled stupidly at his own memory. It faded when he remembered Gos had soccer practice; he was supposed to pick her up at three. Unless it was Friday. Was it Friday? 

It was then that it occurred to him that it hadn’t mattered, because Gosalyn was….

It hurt too much to think about.

“The last two real faces of this two-bit down, wouldn’t you say, old numbskull ?” He crouched to his level, eyes two blue pools of the black chasm that was the duck’s mask; they reveled in the gaze of Darkwing’s dead ones. Negaduck flashed a hated frown. “ Answer me.” 

Darkwing moaned a guttural throat; Negaduck smiled. “Good. Wonderful.” 

The duck in yellow displayed a single cracker, nearly crumbled to dust; Darkwing felt his heart stop and stomach lurch as spit began to blanket his tongue. “I get you out of here, and that bullhead out of your picture.” Negaduck swayed the cracker to his right, as Darkwing’s eyes followed his hand. “And you can go and take St. Canard back from the fools— ahem— cynical minds of S.H.U.S.H that ran this whole operation.”

Speak the mind’s language to reach the mind . Darkwing had a hot flash of that thought, perhaps from a book he read or his own revelation. It didn’t matter though, as he forgot it as instantly as it came to him. The cracker began to travel left, and Darkwing never allowed it to leave his sight. “I won’t even stop you, they took this city from me as much as they did you. But I want a favor for a favor.” 

The cracker was inches from the duck’s beak now; Darkwing was afraid that if he pounced on it, the piece of grain would run for the bushes. “ I want you to kill the “Justice Ducks.” Every last one of them. ” 

Gosalyn had been nearly ecstatic when she caught sight of both Launchpad and Morgana—the last two living remnants of her father. But her heart went as cold as their faces when she realized how heavy the shadows under their eyes were. Honker gave one last squeeze of her arm, as the three boys all casted a rollercoaster of faces at their beloved pilot. 

“Launchpad!”

“You’re leg!”

“You’re alive? ” Dewey had gotten two, well-deserved scowls for that remark. He rubbed his neck with a guilty eye. “I-I mean, you’re okay!” Launchpad could only offer a somber smile, shrugging his shoulders stiffly against his crutches. “There was never a crash I couldn’t walk away from, I always say.” 

Morgana nearly screamed out of her skin as Gizmoduck’s voice boomed behind her. 

“Bring it on, you hag.”

“Why don’t you Gizmobuddies come with me for a moment?” The three little youngsters looked up to their hero in white shining armor, but with a peculiar air of sadness. Louie had been the brave soldier that led the charge. “But Launchpad-”

“Will be alright, now come. You’re Uncle Scrooge is waiting.” After two long groans and Huey’s stubborn scowl, the boys obeyed and left the parlor quieter than they came in an hour or two before. Gizmoduck, in turn, exchanged a sympathetic frown with the pilot. The midnight light glinted off his helmet like a shooting star came true, and Morgana detested it. “If it helps any, I’ll be coming with. Not long mind you, I was able to convince McDuck that much, but I believe he’s got a bone to pick with the both of us.” Launchpad gave a stout nod, leaving the four remaining actors on the stage. 

“What’s he talking about.” The song of nightmares began to throb hotly in Gosalyn’s voice. The witch casted the pilot a soundless look, as if to say “ this was your idea.” Launchpad withdrew a trembling breath, and glanced up with what he hoped to be warm eyes; in reality, they were lucky if they were lukewarm. “I…gotta go, kiddo.” 

All color drained out of Gosalyn’s face.

“ What!? No—why!?” The young girl bounded disparagingly to her beloved pilot, colliding into him so hard that it was a blessing Launchpad didn’t topple over; she gripped tighter than she had Darkwing’s hat. “ If this is about the tower, I promise I won’t ever do it again! I’m sorry- ”

Launchpad’s heart began to shudder. “Gos, it’s not like that. I-”

“--just don’t go! You can’t go! ” 

“You can go with him.” The tears ceased their spilling, as Gosalyn caught a whiff of the ghoul’s cool eyes. She pulled away from the pilot, gripping jittering arms, as she looked between the two of them. “What?” 

“What she means is that you can choose, Gos. That’s what I wanted to tell ya.” Launchpad repositioned to a more comfortable stand, painfully twisting his shoulder blades to alleviate some of the weight they had been bearing off of the leg. “I don’t wanna go to Duckburg, but there’s some…..some things I need to handle. I’ll be back here, I promise, but I can’t tell you how soon.” 

Gosalyn couldn’t believe what she had been hearing. They were making her choose , like a child with divorced parents. The thought brought flashes back to the orphanage, the constant changing faces of hopeful parents that would give up on her just a week into her foster care, the hellos and goodbyes of best friends she met only for three days. The faces were changing again, the hellos and goodbyes were beginning their loop of infinity, and she could hardly wrap her head around it. 

She couldn’t, she couldn’t choose. She loved both Launchpad and Morgana too much to do that, to abandon either one for the other. Both of them had been there for her since this whole thing with Dad started, and even before that. 

That late night of Launchpad skimming through reports, casting up insomniac eyes, warming his face with a waning smile. Him returning to her, with a game controller in hand. “I know it’s been awhile, but how about some Whiffle Boy? For old time sake.”

That hot and tortuous night that she spat rage with Morgana, even now Gosalyn could remember how hard her head buzzed and back trembled. “You don’t know what it’s like losing a parent!” The girl never knew that they bled the same. “I lost a mother.” 

She needed them, both of them. But now she couldn’t have both. The devoted aviator that fought fire for her, or the protective sorceress that gargoyled her demons away. 

If only Dad could have been here.

Chapter Text

His muscles groaned as his eyes began to sag; he could practically hear his heart pounding in his head and grind against his stomach, as the duck’s mouth began to grow sand in its dry landscape. Upon Mr. McDuck’s “eager” request, (that came in the form of “you smell worse than canned tuna that hadn’t been opened in 20 years, lad”) Fenton had gone ahead and bathed with the window curtains drawn, leaving him in an ocean of eerie darkness. His head pulsed a hammer into the rest of his face, but he hardly paid much mind to it.

He was thinking about Gandra, being the masochist he was. 

The two of them had their “ins” and “outs” before, but this seemed too….. final . As if Fenton had truly broken Gandra’s last straw, and now she refused to look back at him as she walked that distance into the fog that was the unbearable future, the plane of uncertainty. He loved that woman more than she would ever realize, but he couldn’t even tell her that. Because telling her meant telling her Gizmoduck. 

Sometimes, Fenton hated Gizmoduck. He wished he hadn’t said that stupid word, blatherskite, wished he had listened to his mother and stuck with bean counting. But no, he just had to be somebody; well, now he was somebody with nobody to tell of it. His heart was dying, and all he could do was watch it with tears in his eyes. 

The hat’s words crossed his mind in Darkwing’s smug voice: so what are you gonna do now, bigshot?

Bigshot. 

This was that maniacal mallard’s fault.

Fenton’s heart began to drum to a fast beat, as blood pulsed through his legs. If Darkwing hadn’t been waltzing around like he owned the place, he wouldn’t have gotten caught the way he had. His ego was where his head should have been, and it had cost Fenton Gandra Dee thanks to his flaw in character and heroic failure. If it hadn’t been for that self-serving narcissist, Gizmoduck wouldn’t have had to go all the way out to St. Canard; McDuck, Gandra, even his mother wouldn’t have ever gotten mad at him for doing so. It was Darkwing Duck’s fault that Gizmoduck was falling apart at the seams. 

Fenton raised to a sitting position, wiping his wet hands against a tired face; waterfalls spilled from his arms as the bathwater was disturbed from his movement. He led out a shaky sigh, as he felt grief sting his eyes; he kept his eyelids welded shut. Leaving me with two cities, leaving me with all his dirty work of crime left behind. If he had known where Quackerjack was amidst the fire, he would have pounded him a new butthole, and that would have been a promise. 

“Mr. Crackshell, sir.” There was a rapping at the bathroom door. “Are you in there?” Fenton hadn’t known Duckworth too well, but he did know he was more gentleman than he was butler—and he was a darn good butler. “In the flesh.” His voice tankered off in a humorless tone, despite his attempt at comedy. “What’s wrong?” 

“I have spare clothes, sir.”

“There’s no need for that, Duckworth.”

“I’m also relaying Mr. McDuck’s message that he wishes for you to stay the night.” Fenton groaned; well that would have explained the spare clothes. The duck tilted his head back until his neck creaked and squeaked at the joints, his eyes still resting. “Noted. Thanks.” He heard a soft pat near the door, but it hadn’t been long before the silence returned. 

Careful to not get motion-sick from the move, he began to slowly stand, unplugging the bath as he did so. He crept out and reached for the lightswitch; Fenton squaked at the sudden light, despite having anticipated it. He retrieved the clothes Duckworth had left him outside the door, and began dressing; he froze mid-button when he saw a dead face.

It was his face. In the mirror.

“Sweet Jiminy Cricket!”

Black and purple pools of bruised shadow hung under his eyes, his beak brittle and somber, and hair feathers that hadn’t looked groomed in weeks. Even in Mama Crackshell’s words, the words of a woman who never left a couch except to relieve herself and grab quackerjacks, her son had been an utter mess. 

He peered into his murderous eyes, eyes that had reddened around the rims. He grinned a sick displeasure.

“Well we’ve seen better days, haven’t we?” 

I had wholly expected Megavolt to ditch me when the tide grew too high, but I couldn’t predict Liquidator’s decision—-for him, a mountain would barely be a bump in the road, but on a whim, would also decide climbing a hill was like climbing an avalanche. Regardless, I still hadn’t expected him to help double my search efforts. 

He stood with me alone on a street that occupied more abandoned convenience stores than used apartments, staring off into the sidewalk that seemed to trail forever. His face was loose, and for a moment, I thought it looked rather…..well, sad to put it mildly. I had wanted to ask him why his spirits had plummeted so low, it was clear he didn’t care about Darkwing any more than Megavolt had, but I couldn’t help but to think there was more to it than that. I didn’t ask him, although something inside me screamed that I should have. 

Spike, as per the typical, stood faithfully by my side like a doberman scouting a yard. The morning had begun to stir, as the shadows of the night began to slip back into their dark trenches. 

We hadn’t caught sight nor sign of Darkwing after his jailbreak, and it was clear even the duck had made sure that would be the case. It was a little ironic in hindsight; the Justice Ducks were the ones without the Midnight Mallard’s trail, yet now here I was, with the same exact dilemma. 

I thought about Liquidator’s offer about seeking their aid, but then Quackerjack’s little tizzy expedition argued otherwise; they would surely be in our hides now, in relation to the jester’s. Why did that toy-loving psycho have to blow everything up in my face, both figuratively and literally?

I rubbed an eye, releasing a grip of hope from my shoulders. “We’ve searched all night; we’re never going to find him like this.” When I looked back up to meet that fluid face, it stared back at me with a murky quality. “You care a great deal.”

I could only blink, not fully realizing his context. “....yeah.”

“Why? Sensitivity only ever wielded weak profits for me.” I smiled, but it quickly diminished the more I caked the thought around his question; Rhoda Dendron always did say I “cared too much” about things. My heart leapt at the image of her, and then again of Posey. Compassion wasn’t too great of a thing to have if you were a villain either; I lost two women who carried my heart that way. Too much passion, too much vigor, so much so that it darn near crossed fanatical territory. I coldly remembered how I nearly rammed Darkwing’s head in with a lawnmower when I had seen his hands on my Posey; what had I been thinking? But that was the thing, I had been feeling but not thinking. It was a dire mistake to put your head where your heart was. 

“I don’t know what I am.” I had answered my own question, but not Liquidator’s; I shrunk my head as the realization hit me. “I-I mean, I just can’t help it, sort of. I guess.” In Negaduck’s words, I was soft that way—a softness Negaduck always seemed to hate and pin against me back when we were all the Fearsome Five. 

My mind drifted to Negaduck, playing with the idea if he had known what had been going on all this time with Darkwing. I had no logic to back it up with, but I had that dreaded and dark feeling that he had . But it was only that; just a feeling. A setup like this was something that somebody of Negaduck’s caliber was bound to take advantage of. He hated Darkwing more than anybody I knew of, so it seemed almost impossible that he hadn’t known about any of this, not if he were living under a rock. 

“I never realized how much you treasure….friendship. Family, even.” The canine casted his face back down the sidewalk again, as the sun continued to rise, flashing greens and teals through his liquid matter. “I never quite understood family.” 

I hadn’t meant to, but I remember feeling myself smile. If I were to take a guess, it probably looked like a cold kind of smile. “Yeah, me neither.” 

“Like I’m gonna risk my neck for some duck ….” The rat kicked a nearby can into an alleyway. “Pfft, duck lovers. What do I look like, Ernie of Sesame Street?” He gave pause. “Oh wait, wrong universe…… whatever !” He kicked another can, and gave another pause—but this time it hadn’t been from his lame attempt at humor. 

Amidst his wandering, he had stumbled upon Quackerjack’s old toy factory, an occasional lair of his when the feds (nor feathers) had been on his tail. “ Sparky… ” Megavolt narrowed a look. “I’ll show you what a Sparky can do.” He began to make his way through one of the entrances he had memorized from Quackerjack’s old tours of the place. 

It had been a hard few days, but Quackerjack could have never expected to see Negaduck’s face again, nor in his factory again . He had sat in a swivel chair designated for the jester’s personal workshop, in which he planned all of his “fun” toys for future endeavors. His fingers lapped around each other, his upper half pushed back comfortably in the chair, with a haunted gaze. “Hey there, bud .” 

The clown began to feel the skin on his neck rise to a shriveling density. “I did what you wanted! It…it wasn’t my fault!” The demented clown began to cower before an even sicker shadow that grew bigger with every step. Negaduck bared a set of teeth like a dog on a bone. “Would you quit yammering! That isn’t why I’m here.” The clown’s mind exploded into the land of confusion. 

“I’m back because I still need….. assistance .” Negaduck never thought in realms of help, but rather extra toys to send on tedious errands. In that regard, both jester and monster had been one and the same. “But if this is going to work…”

Quackerjack gargled a shriek as Negaduck’s claws trapped themselves hungrily around his neck. “..... you’ll keep your tongue, if you know what’s good for you. Get my drift?” Quackerjack whimpered an agreement; he understood the drift quite well, that if he so much as spoke “nega-” his tongue would be cut out of his mouth before he could utter “-duck.” The dog’s master had been pleased, warming his hopes with a grin before shattering that hope again by shoving him against the floor. The deadly duck twisted on a sharp heel, strolling back to the clown’s makeshift work station. “I know that vegetable head has Darkwing.” 

Quackerjack felt a ball of stone slam at the bottom of his stomach. 

It made sense that Gosalyn would choose Launchpad; out of the two of them, she had known the pilot the longest, and spent far more time with him around the house than she had with Morgana.

But she chose Morgana nonetheless. Surprise itched even across Launchpad’s face at that one. The only thing that ran across the ghoul’s mind was why ? Launchpad seemed far more closer to Gosalyn, and likely had better ways in dealing with her, from the odd times when Drake couldn’t be home.

Memory began to torture her; tucking Gosalyn in, just before she left for the others upon J. Gander’s calling, about the first leads of their missing person case. “ I love you, Morgana.” A loving face only a daughter could share.

The ghoul felt ice ring around her heart; she wasn’t Gosalyn’s mother, she couldn’t be. No matter how much the young girl may have thought she wanted it, it was a role Morgana knew, deep inside somewhere, she couldn’t have ever satisfied. It broke her in more ways than depression could, but that was a reality she was willing to live with. 

Gosalyn had still been devastated about the matter, but Launchpad made the valid attempt to make wishful promises in returning as soon as the old duck was willing; it wasn’t much, but to a little girl it meant the world. 

To add another spin to her astonishment, Gosalyn also insisted on not returning home; she grew tired of mistaking her shadows for Drake’s, of avoiding the temptation of peeking into his old bedroom where his belongings had been touched by no one but his hands. She hated seeing visions of him angrily picking up her laundry or hearing him curse her basketballs in the hallway. She didn’t wish to forget Drake, she merely wanted to forget his ghost. For all she cared, it could have his hat back. 

Seeing the knife twisted under Gos’s eyes as she spoke of this was enough to convince Morgana to let her stay in her own abode instead; it probably needed a good dusting anyway. 

Gosalyn had been settled into the guest room that had now been hers, with only a few belongings she decided to bring with. Upon having to return for them however, Morgana questioned why the garage door had been left wide open—-she supposed Launchpad may have forgotten to close it when he drove out that day with the children. There had been no light left on either; the driveway was submerged into a pool of shadow. The witch felt a small tug to step into the garage anyway, but decided against the instinct with no reason other than “it’s just nerves.”

But if she had checked the garage and had flicked on the lights, she would have found her boyfriend clocked-out against the wall near the light-switch he had barely flicked off in time, likely in a state of utter emotional exhaustion. But she didn’t, and that was the end of that. She closed the garage door, and despite the earthquake of sound it created, not once did Darkwing stir from his unintended nap.

He may have killed her right then and there, or at least tried to, if he had. 

 The young girl had been quiet, which made sense as it was early morning. Morgana herself couldn’t have that pleasure, that sensible peace they all so desperately needed. 

She had sat by a window of what was left of her abandoned living area, shivering in a chair as she gloomed upon the rising sun. She hadn’t felt cold, so it was an odd reaction to be having. But it’s not, and you know why .

Gizmoduck had been why. Or rather, the phantom of him that had appeared to her in her dream. Morgana wasn’t often prone to dreaming, and when she did they weren’t really dreams….. they were visions. It was an ability of hers that her father had always taken pride in, as in his words, “it means magic is strong in this family!” Moloculo’s one and only daughter had been the first in the McCawber’s fifty generations to have regained the natural talent of foresight. Her first “vision” came to her, funny enough, around when she was Gosalyn’s age. 

She had dreamt that one of her many cousins had left a gas lamp on, and said lamp had bursted into flames—tearing apart the wallpaper and polished floor. As soon as she had awoken, she had taken the gas lamp down from the shelf and shoved it in a box; her cousin never clicked it on and the house never once caught fire. When her father probed the reason for her antics, she gave in in the form of tears. The dream had been vivid and dastardly, as a sudden dread of doom would begin to take hold of her until she could change the fate that was to come. 

It was a “gift” Morgana never wished on another living soul. 

Thankfully for her it never happened too often, and up until now, it had been about rather pleasurable events as compared to what she endured in childhood. Meeting her familiars had been one of them, and the dream had played out exactly how it had truly happened. Passing a hard exam on The Intricacies of Thrall Spawning , in which she remembered the answers she chose in the dream—she thanked all things mighty for that one; she had barely been able to slip a passing grade for that class. 

She even had one particularly striking dream about Darkwing, just a few months before the two of them met. In the dream, the night had engulfed his face too much to truly be able to witness it, but his voice resonated through her head like a familiar song one couldn’t quite place their finger on. His vocals were clear and crisp, which usually meant that the premonition was bound to happen with almost no stopping it. 

There were times when Morgana held onto the small hope of her dreams not happening, as it often did happen. There had been a few fuzzy dreams where Dark had proposed to her in many different lives, and in those it was like watching water ripple in a mirror; shapes had no definition, voices echoed off into an abyss, and there had been no feeling of finality to them. There was even a fleeting dream she remembered from her teenage years when her father had found another woman to try his hand at love-life with again, but the woman never showed up in reality. In truth, that had been the closest thing to a real dream Morgana ever had; a dream that was simply a dream, and didn’t mirror a future that may or may not come. 

Gizmoduck’s voice rang in her head not like a song, but screeching speakers. She could practically see that sinister eye now, peering at her through the wreckage of his helmet, feeling the hate that oozed from his breath. She could taste the grief he was drowning in. It was Darkwing’s fault, it was all his fault. And by association, it had been Morgana’s too. They would pay, they would all pay .

Morgana held a temple, snapping her eyes open; she stared at the sun again, creeping over the cold horizon. There was no doubt about it, whatever reflection of face Gizmoduck had given her was bound to come back tenfold, sooner rather than later. It was just a matter of when. 

Squeak had perched on her shoulder, and mumbled something; to a deaf ear, it would have been typical bat yelpings. But to Morgana’s, it had been words that should have never been spoken. “What!?” The bat recoiled, as its mistress snapped a venomous look. “He feeds off such things,” The red moon began to shimmer across her eyes once again. “And he’s lied before, how would you expect me to trust him ?” Squeak replied shortly, and it cracked Morgana’s heart.

Her small friend had accused her of the very thing she used to accuse Dark of: trust . That people never change. 

She cradled a fist around her other wrist, casting a shivering glance at one of her shelves, hidden away from the sun’s dawning rays. Did she dare wake him again, after everything he put both her and Darkwing through? Was it a wise thing to unleash such an uncontrollable power again, was it something that this city could withstand at a second attempt?

In another life, she wouldn’t have even batted an eye when cementing a “no” in her mind. But times were desperate, and it called for such desperate measures. 

On that weak little shelf, the bag of sleep sand grinned back at her. 

Well wasn’t this a fishy situation, and Megavolt meant that quite literally. He kept to the shadows, behind endless crates and old prototypes of toys that never saw the light of life. Before him, whether his eyes would will it or not, had been Neptunia. She was bound against one of the old factory’s beams, with a sun lamp torturing the moisture out of her. If he had been Bushroot, the rat probably would have risked his neck for her too. But he wasn’t, yet that didn’t stop him from snooping in places where his nose ought to get stomped on. The toymaker’s voice had been unmistakable in identity:

“ You brought HER here!?”

The fish snapped up her face in conversation with the sound; her small dark eyes casted menacing shadows under her brow. “Yes, yes I did.” Negaduck grinned that smug toothy smile once again. “And she’ll stay for as long as I say.” He flicked a gander at the jester. “Right, partner ?” Quackerjack gave no further resistance. 

The duck gave approach, stalking silently through the shadows; Megavolt could only imagine how that bright and unrelenting lamp must have fogged the fish’s vision. “Believe or not, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Neptunia barked a laugh, but it carried no weight of humor. “HA! Now ain’t that a load.” Negaduck paused beside the lamp, and the rat heard a small flick as he pressed something on it; the sun suddenly beamed the strength of two suns, and its victim groaned under the light. “Only if you work with me, that is.” Megavolt choked back a yelp as the duck suddenly swept in his direction; he had seen him, and he was going to pay for his peeking-tom antics.

Negaduck passed the crate Megavolt was sandwiched behind. 

“You and I are quite alike, you know.” Neptunia could only answer through panting, but Negaduck took no obligation of releasing this hen’s neck. Not yet, anyway. The jester shuddered away as the duck drew near him with the word “murder” echoing his every step. “And in that, I mean Darkwing.” Neptunia squinted through the light; Megavolt held a breath, scared that if he had let it escape, he’d miss Negaduck’s next few words. 

“‘What about him?”

“Don’t tell me you like the guy.” The fish merely scoffed at such an accusation. “Never said I did, but that’s not answering the question.” Negaduck began the hunt once again, and the rat suddenly wished Neptunia hadn’t uttered those thoughts. However, the duck had kept good on his word for once, and didn’t lay a hand on her; instead, he dimmed the lamp. Neptunia blinked out blinding lights as her captor revealed a small contraption to her befuddled face. “What does this look like to you?”

“You’re beak when I pulverize it.”

“Cute, but no.” Negaduck itched his fingers toward the lamp switch again like a snake ready to strike its meal. “I’ll consider that a freebie, but wit me again and this baby goes full blast .” Neptunia returned his cold stare, glancing at the thing in his hand now with more serious intent. “It’s a box, so?” 

“Not just a box.” 

Despite the rat’s position, he craned a neck to see what exactly his old leader had been showing off like a proud old mother. He caught reflection of, what indeed Neptunia said seemed to be, a small metallic box. The chrome casing glittered a night of stars on its black coating, a deceivingly beautiful handmanship. It had been deceiving because Megavolt knew of the box’s true intent of use, reminiscing to his accelerated science books he was so fond of as a teen.

It was a bomb. 

Normally, Spike is pretty tame when it comes to strangers—and in that I mean he won’t maul you, successively that is. I mean he may try, but it never gets him anywhere. But even when he does get his leaves in a vine, it would have been nowhere as vicious as the moment he began to thunder a growl from the pits of his stemmy belly. Out of the shots of my eye, I could even sense Liquidator’s folded-over ears perk at the hinges as he picked up the sound. I casted a startled glance at my young friend; spit (or rather water thanks to his floral nature) began to ooze dangerously from his haunting chompers. 

On a further note, I also normally have quite a controlled presence when it comes to Spike; it all went out the window as the shadows I hadn’t known had been there bloomed from inside of him. “What is it, boy?” 

The orange floral on his head began to rise like upside-down icicles. 

“It seems as though he’s found a buyer.” Before I could ask my aqueous friend what he had meant by that, I had seen what he had meant. A weasel had frozen stone-cold in his tracks, at the other side of the street, casting a weary eye at a now bloodthirsty Spike that was five seconds away from gunning for him. You know, I couldn’t remember for the life of me if Spike had been a carnivorous sort of plant. 

All worries aside, the mustelid still took his chances and began sprinting down the road in the opposite direction. Spike roared (something I never knew he could do, it sent shivers down even my spine) and sharply began the hunt. I met with Liquidator’s eyes shortly, who only seemed to have reflected my flabbergasted appearance perfectly. 

“All or nothing? My bid’s on the table.” The canine watched, rather amused, as the weasel began to wail upon realizing a giant slobbering plant had been tailgating him.

I sighed. Why the heck not, it wasn’t like I had better things to do.

Chapter Text

Author's Note:

WARNING! This chapter does get rather dark, especially near the end, so read at your own discretion if that sort of thing bothers you. Just thought to give a heads-up for this one...enjoy!

Neptunia could barely believe what she had been hearing; if she were to take Negaduck at face value, she would have just honestly been told Darkwing Duck had planned to blow St. Canard sky high. That before he did, he was going out there, right now, to finish off every person who could ever stop him, and he would start that with the city’s most notable heroes.

She knew being a “Justice Duck” would come back to bite her in the fin someday.

“Say I believe you, why should I care? And why should I believe you?” She had been seconds away from chipping in and why do you even care, but thought the wise decision to eat her tongue. She was in no state to be throwing out witticisms with the whole accumulation of the planet’s global warming levels chiseling away at her. Negaduck’s face never strayed from its cold calculation. “Wouldn’t matter if you did, it’s gonna happen either way. Just thought I’d tip the game into your favor.” He took keen interest in pinching off some debris from his wear, analyzing it with a bored eye. “Not that I care much for what happens, but I don’t plan on trying to high-tail it to Duckburg when things start to–” He smiled. “---blow up.” He flicked the dirt away, greeting her gaze once again, eyes that spoke more of deadly curiosity as opposed to satisfaction in a powerplay. “There really wouldn’t be much for me to do in a dead city, wouldn’t you think?” Negaduck may have been demented, but he wasn’t stupid; he was abnormally equipped with the talents of persuasion and reason. 

And lies.

Deep down, the fish knew there was something to the story that he wasn’t letting on—perhaps to paint a narrative, or just to toy with her that much further. Perhaps a bit of both, the more she thought about it. 

It had been of no news to her that Darkwing Duck had been gone for quite some time; a few turtles who took residence on the beaches had caught gossip of it from passerby. Neptunia hadn’t thought much of it though; she had been more occupied with the sudden war that erupted amongst some whales, a war in which may have threatened the safety of the surface dwellers if it had gotten out of hand. She had managed to dissolve it, before being nabbed the way she had by yours truly, running off of a false tip that a sea critter had been washed ashore with no hope of escaping the sun’s harmful rays.

Oh, the irony.

The point was that she knew Darkwing was gone, but she hardly cared as to why—the guy was always full of himself, and for all she knew, this was a whole shtick for him to get himself more publicity. You couldn’t blame a gal for assuming the worst of a near-stranger, who had only ever caused her trouble upon first appearances (even if he was just trying to prevent her from sinking a whole city under). If anything, she liked Launchpad much better—he was a sweet fella. And not so quick to the mouth either. 

“I still don’t catch how any of this involves me.” Negaduck held his breath for a moment, before masking a good-ole jolly expression; simple minded, he liked that….to a point anyway. “What do you think is gonna happen when the smokes start to rise.” He began to leer over her. “Or when—if—the bridge just so happens to collapse? Where are people going to go?” Neptunia fell silent; the oceans, her oceans, would be flooded with land-dwellers and sea critters alike, splashing in a mania-induced catastrophe. Luck would only have it, if the secluded little island St. Canard resided upon, didn’t crumble and splash with them, chunks of concrete and metal pinning dolphins to the sea floors until they suffocated. And like Negaduck mentioned, the smoke would get sucked and dissolved into the sea life like cotton candy to water; land nor water would be safe any longer. 

Neptunia suddenly began to hate Darkwing Duck. 

Negaduck leaned leisurely against the beam she was tied against, clearly satisfied with his efforts. “So how about we make a truce, huh?” The duck lowered his face to her height, flashing a wrinkle across his beak at her fish smell; he smothered the look for the time being. “I let you go, and you stop that purple dunce. What you do with him, I couldn’t care less.” 

“I’ll kill him.” It seemed a random thought, but it poured out of Neptunia’s lips as if it had been a thought that had gathered dust. “If he’s really gone nuts, then that’s gonna be the only way to stop him.” It was immoral and cold and heartless, she knew, but so would burning a whole city to death, along with its ocean life. Compared to one life and that of a million others, she’d rather vote to murder than to massacre. Negaduck didn't smile, but his eyes certainly had. All it took was a little elbow grease, pleasure of the tongue, and a few hours under the sun to convince this little fishy that murder was her only way home. 

She wouldn’t be the only one to lose her marbles so suddenly, so uncharacteristically, so selfishly. But that time was yet to come. He had both Darkwing and Neptunia now squirming under his thumb. Two down, one to go. 

“Of course, if I am going to let you go….I’ll need a favor.” The duck began to tap the beam in thought, as the fish kept a still intent. “Name it, sweetheart, and it’ll be yours.” 

“I need a little eye-work on Gizmoduck.” 

Quackerjack thought that his best place, as of now, was to keep quiet and pretend he didn’t have a brain. Negaduck had scared him witless; you could talk yourself up in a mirror for hours, convincing yourself that you could take on the world, but as soon as that duck stepped into the room, all those hours you spent talking to your face were forgotten within a blink of an eye. He knew Negaduck was up to something sick, but he couldn’t do much more than utter a “yes sir” and “would you like some coffee with that?” 

He couldn’t believe he had been reduced to this, to being Negaduck’s personal thrall. But then again, he also couldn’t believe he had been spurned; it was one thing to be tossed aside from the toy business, but by friends?

No, they weren’t friends. Not anymore. They were nothing to him now, and perhaps being with Negaduck was better than being around fake friends. He began to miss Mr. Banana Brain. 

His brain perked at a shuffle behind the crates; he caught a flicker of movement from within the slanted shadows, but when he turned in full view of it, all had gone still. Panic had been slithering across the jester’s brain, as he suddenly felt that there may have been more pairs of eyes in this room than he had realized. 

“You.” Quackerjack squabbled, meeting the face of his loyal tormentor. When the duck hadn’t followed up on his statement, the clown dared to provoke it. “Me?” 

“Will keep tail of those other dweebs.” The clown merely stared, as Negaduck’s blood began to boil due to the enduring impatience. “The vegetable head!”

“OH…..why?” He was greeted with the strangle of the collar and hot rotting breath on his face. “Because I said.” 

Spike had gotten a good snag out of the weasel’s leg before I could rip him off of his prize; he shrieked and began the dance that was his jaw-snapping, flailing within my flimsy grasp. “Would you quit it! I swear, I fed you today.” My remark hadn’t stopped his beastily snorts and cries of rage. 

His victim in question had been clutching his leg, with a back plastered against the pole of a streetlight; his lips had peeled back, with a thought that seemed to speak of a burning kind of pain. “What the heck, man!” Spike never typically went out of his way to attack a stranger the way he had; he had only done so either by my call, in the greenhouse to protect territory, or if he was provoked somehow. So I couldn’t help but to think there was something about this guy that my little friend saw but I hadn’t. 

Liquidator had looked down on the stranger with crossed arms and a pair of inquisitive eyes. “Have we met before?” The weasel beared contempt through sharp-pointed fangs. “What’s it to ya?” The dog bestowed a patient hand toward my “precious” Spike, who had now been raking at my arms savagely; if there was one good thing that ever came out of becoming a half-plant duck, it was that pain no longer bothered my limbs. “It would be wise to reconsider” had been Liquidator’s only retort. 

“I don’t know, okay, now can I get a doctor here? Something!” Spike began an ear bleeding screech, attempting another lunge at his prey. “Spike! Cut it out!” You would have thought he had a vendetta against the guy. “Get that thing away from me!” The weasel’s hands began to slap against the sidewalk, brushing himself against the rock past the pole and in Liquidator’s vicinity; his attention never left Spike’s.

“I-I’m sorry, he’s normally not like this…” The weasel scoffed while the dog perked a brow at my wimpy apology. “As if I’m buying that, he went for my neck before and–” The stranger paused, realizing his mistake. Both me and Liquidator raptured his unfamiliar face, and Spike began to drown and calm into a still growl. “We have met, I caught you snooping on my premises.” The water that had made up the canine’s body had gone straight to ice (metaphorically speaking of course), rupturing the laws of the water cycle. I had a hunch that the weasel began to regret his decision to shuffle himself closer to Liquidator. “I didn’t do nothing!”

Liquidator began a smile that I knew too well, and it nearly murdered me just having to witness it. In my mind’s eye, his snout slowly morphed into a bloody duck bill, with a rose hat to match. 

The fluid hound raised a fist, that soon began to sizzle a deep red as steam began to cloud above it. I hadn’t known Liquidator had been able to touch others without phasing through them, but he must have wielded that ability well, as he grasped the weasel rather gently by the shoulder, with a hand that had still been cool. “We could change that.” His voice was still, but it was undoubtedly known for its violence. 

“What are you doing!?” Liquidator shot up a glare and snarled—a deep, truly wolfish, growl. “Back off.” Those words seemed to have echoed the same cadence I had heard Darkwing having not too long ago. Spike fell silent, staring up at me more or less in curiosity rather than paternal comfort; I was shivering. 

“Liq, we aren’t here to cause a scene; let him go!” Much to my grievance, the dog gave up on hearing me out long ago, and returned his attention to his sick delight. “You nearly cost me a lair, I oughta wham you for corporate sabotage.”

“I wasn’t trying to blow your cover, man!”

“Then what were you doing?” The weasel began to fumble for words, and that in of itself was enough to prompt Liquidator to continue through with his heinous act. He raised that steamy fist, and the fact that the sun had glittered directly on it probably made it that much hotter.

Something in me snapped. I can’t really explain it, it’s like when you’ve had a ruthless wake-up call, a kind of call that screamed that you just had to do something. It didn’t tell you what or how to do it, just that things would get bad fast if you hadn’t. I suppose Morgana might have had a better idea about the feeling than I did at that moment, after having known her side of things. With her witchy ways, she might have even called it fate. 

“Drop it, Liq.” He eyed me like a tiger eyed a lion cub without a mother, a reality that should have never been possible. “Wha-”

“Do…it. It’s not worth it, and you know it. Be smart about it, business guy.” Liquidator had been bewildered, as had the weasel, Spike, even myself. I hadn’t known what came over me, but I didn’t back down. The canine did, however, slowly but surely. The red fist had subsided, and all Liquidator could do was glare at me for having stolen his authority. 

I began to see why Quackerjack and him never quite got along, even in the beginning. 

“We can still question him, but there’s no point in getting ruthless about this. We’re in enough hot water as it is.” No pun had been intended, but the weasel still glowered at me for that comment. As if nothing had taken place, as if a bomb hadn’t nearly hit where we stood, Liquidator re-crossed his arms with a cool demeanor. “Then carry it away, Holmes.” 

Me? I glanced back at the weasel, who still had been babying a bitten leg. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my green heart began to pump from my throat instead of my chest cavity. I hated the spotlight, but even more I hated interrogations, whether or not it had been me being questioned. “Uh…” It came out more like a croak than the command I had hoped it to be.

Spike resumed his growl, and suddenly my brain fired the first question. 

“How do you know Spike? He doesn’t just hate people.” Believe it or not, that had been nothing but the truth. “He chased me through the sewers one night, that’s it. I didn’t do nothing to em.” I guess that could explain it, like I said Spike could be mighty territorial. He also had a way of getting out of my sight, which happened often when I was with the rest of the gang. I stifled a dry laugh, realizing the ghosts of Megavolt and Quackerjack had been hung over my shoulder. 

It still felt as if he was trying to cover up for something though, so I didn’t stop there.

“Well why were you in Liq’s sewers?” The weasel’s face froze, before sharply breaking away to look at the ground. “My lips are sealed on that one, bud.” 

“Bud, huh?” Liquidator began a tense, strangled, laugh. “Do you know who I am?” 

“A pain in the heiny?”

“Bud Flud.” Liquidator never did acquire a taste for secret identities; at every given chance, he’d shout his social security number from Mt. Everest if he could, if it meant conquering over the fear of others he seemed to have craved. The weasel’s face drained into a pale sense of dread, but his eyes spoke admiration. “You….” He looked at me, and the terror deepened the grooves of his eyes. “Aw shoot ... .the Fearsome Five.”

More like two at this point, and not really all that fearsome anymore if you asked me.

“Look, I don’t want no trouble. I work for a guy, you see?” The contours of his visage began to play into that of a child begging not to get whooped for punching his little sister. “And if I bite, I die. You get me, r-r-right?” Liquidator remained unamused, but I dared to play the sympathy hand. “We…we won’t let that happen. Just tell us, and we’ll deal with it.” The weasel sparked some hope in those beady little eyes, but they were masked with a strange toughness rather quickly. “....you won’t let him blow me?”

“If you confess and act now.” The dog’s cool facade cracked a bit at those words. He must have seen some kind of power in bartering words with us, to have been risking his neck by spilling his guts to the floor. But I guess whenever Negaduck, the head and face of the Fearsome Five, is in the picture, even his wrath could seem far more nightmarish than that of the minotaur himself.

“The name’s JM, and I’ve been giving the big Bulba guy the dump on Darkwing.” 

He was stuck on a one-way road, a road caked in shadows that seemed darker than Drake’s own. For a moment, he felt a serene peace he could hardly remember having for so long; the pines jingled nature’s tune from their rustling branches, glittering softly of a light drizzle that had showered them. He smiled, and for a moment had forgotten his anguish.

A motor growled in the distance. Drake turned to face it, and was blared down by headlights like a confused deer.

The car had been racing toward him at the speed of lightning, honking its horn, tires squealing against the wet road. But staring into those headlights, Drake hardly cared; he had still been silently enjoying nature’s reassuring songs. The bright light had been burning brighter by the second, and the honks and screeches began to echo more than they did blare. He didn’t mind, he was happy where he was. 

Leaping from the darkness of the trees, Bushroot pushed him off the road; Drake could smell rubber (and oddly crackers) as the car skidded by. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Negaduck bellow a baleful cry.

The first thing Darkwing realized was how dark the garage was, then noticed the thin slip of sunlight glittering through a small window on one of the walls; he had dreamt into morning hours. He sat there for a moment, before his brain could catch up with him, then realized his own indolence. He had wasted his night away with slumber, slumber he had quite much of prior, so to speak, and now he was stuck trying to walk in daylight. The duck threw a gander behind him, realizing the giant metal sheet of door had shut him selfishly inside. 

Those freaks had known of his return, and lamely attempted to lock him in his own deserted house. Darkwing felt a low growl escape from his throat, his eyes darkening. “I’ll get them yet.” 

His stomach twisted and screamed; he attempted to stand against the wall, but the hunger had been sucking down what little strength he had like a sick vampire. No wonder he had fainted, it was likely his body’s way of bashing an anvil against his head to call his attention to its needs. He strangled across the garage on two left feet, his head pounding with each step. He felt that chain, once again, pat and chime gently against his chest. He caught a loose thought of that cracker, the cracker Negaduck had dangled above him in a smug cloud of power, the cracker that had been bartered in escaping his bullish abuser. Darkwing wished he could have at least tasted it; he began to smell rubber again, that same rubber smell from his dream not too long ago.

What had it been about again? It had been too long since he dreamed, since he actually slept within his own will and not by the nature of drugs. And why was he given drugs? From how the effects felt (the ones that have now long since passed), Darkwing could now deduce it had been a depressant of some kind, something to take the pain of his broken bones and nightmarish bruises away. To keep him under the moon’s shadows that was sleep. He remembered very distinctly that Bulba had been very particular about that.

Where was the guy, anyway? He couldn’t even remember how he had gotten away, only that Negaduck had been there to have made sure it had happened. That he–

—Darkwing lost sense of his center, and slammed into the door that led inside the house; he moaned. He fumbled for a handle, the jitters of a likely-festering trauma disorder beginning to show its first signs. He didn’t care; life itself was a trauma of its own enduring. The hinges squealed, and the duck collapsed against the floor with burning knees that took the brunt of the fall. He struggled a few heaving breaths, before willing himself to his feet again with arms that felt like Bushroot’s viny ones. He looked up, and his eyes were assaulted with sunlight that streamed through all the windows of a ghostly house. 

How was he supposed to go on like this, hangering a limp and falling down every minute? How was he to do what was to be done? Darkwing’s body was failing him, much like his sanity. I need food, that’s all. I just need to get to the kitchen, is all. I’ll be better then. How the duck so hoped that wish came true. The freaks wouldn’t be here either, he was sure of that. Especially if they had tried locking him inside the garage for good measure.

After roughly fifteen agonizing minutes that felt like fifteen long years, Darkwing Duck had reached Drake Mallard’s old kitchen; the sun here was almost unbearable. His first suspect of inspection had been the fridge; nothing but a few ingredients, that ultimately, amounted to roughly nothing of a satisfying meal. Darkwing grumbled, before settling for a block of cheese and gnashing his teeth into it; his beak squirmed with a foreseeable disgust. It was a Launchpad move, sure, but that didn’t mean he had Launchpad’s tastebuds nor the gut to handle it. 

Oh how much he missed that son of a sucker. 

Darkwing heaved over the kitchen counter, leaning so close to it his chest barely touched it, hunching his shoulders as he stared at that disgusting block of cheese in his bony hands. He had done the first half of what needed to be done, more so on Negaduck’s behalf (Darkwing couldn’t believe he was saying that). He remembered now with a bite of cheese in his stomach, although still dimly, Negaduck had supplied him with the bombs to bring this city to its knees, sometime after his farewell departure from St. Canard Tower. He was to wipe out all the evil that had festered in St. Canard. All the evil Darkwing Duck had allowed to fester blindly. 

He’d know if the freak had followed through with the duck’s instruction; he had a small indicator that would alarm him when they were set and ready for his use. In reality, blowing up the police station and S.H.U.S.H’s headquarters wasn’t going to be enough to obliterate the island, but it was a start, and the fear of the masses would further sweep things into motion. And the duck hadn’t been lying when he said he would return in three days, this time with twice as many ticking timebombs in his pocket, little nuclear seeds that  needed only an idiot to set them. As long as the freak kept things simple, the rest would be just as easy. 

The “Justice Ducks” were what had worried Darkwing, though. Seeing those familiar faces, the faces the freaks stole from the souls of his previous life. No matter what he told himself, Darkwing had felt, he was darn sure that he would hesitate if he had to pull a trigger on one of them. Some, more likely than others. 

“Neptunia” is gonna be the easiest to start; never liked her much anyway. Maybe “Stegmutt” second, as heartless as that sounds. “Gizmoduck” and Morgan-.....no, “Morgana” would be its own horsepill to swallow, a nightmare to face on its own turf, but he at least wouldn’t have to worry about it for now. If anything, the duck hoped finishing the first two would make finishing the last two much easier. Darkwing made another noise, this one a mix between a groan and a whimper, a noise that collided along with the chime of the chain as it rustled under his turtleneck. 

What was that thing.

In a huff, the duck groped at his neck, digging and groveling for the ridiculous chain that pestered him to near insanity; his face dropped as the sunlight lit its silhouette. 

A ring. A simple ring on a simple chain. 

Why in the world do I have this?

For the life of him, Darkwing couldn’t poof the memory in front of his eyes even if he had been the creator of all that was wizardry. In fact, the only thing he could remember was….

….no.

Rest your head, little girl blue,

The ring began to tremble, as did the rest of Darkwing’s hand. No, no, please no. Not here, not now. Now was not the time for grief–

Come paint your dreams on your pillow.

Darkwing’s vision began to double, triple, as a familiar warmth attacked his eyes. His chest rattled, as his lungs threatened to heave a sob. 

I’ll be near….

The tears began to fall.

….to chase away fear. 

He gripped the now warm cheese, manning out all the strength he had against it; deep grooves formed grave plots against its blocky surface. They were gone, they were all gone. No, there was no point in sugarcoating it now. They were dead, every last one of them. 

So sleep now….

And it was all because of Gander. Gander and his filthy goons. Darkwing Duck would not rest until S.H.U.S.H crumbled beneath his feet. Flashes of cherished memories flew past his mind faster than a player could throw a ball: Launchpad, Morgana, Gizmoduck, even the helpless Muddlefoots. But Gosalyn….

….and dream til’ tomorrow.

….was the last straw.

I couldn’t remember everything precisely, forgive me, but I’ll tell what I heard in my own words.

Apparently, this whole fiasco began with F.O.W.L’s orders, much less than to my surprise; I had left that egg-shaped device back at Megavolt’s, and hearing JM’s side of it only furthered my ambition to go back for it. I had heard of Steelbeak, one of the agency’s biggest lapdogs, but didn’t think he had enough guts to really tackle the mission he found himself entangled in. F.O.W.L wanted their best weapon back into their hands, and that weapon was Taurus Bulba. The problem was that Bulba himself wanted nothing to do with them other than smash them to bits for bringing him back only half the man he was. 

So, in the weasel’s words, what better way to trick a dog than give it a nibble of a bone? Darkwing Duck, apparently, had been that bone. The trap for the duck had been planned for months, and was unleashed where Darkwing was last seen (an old warehouse, that really needed no mentioning, as cops picked it clean with nothing so much as dust covering the ground ... .and apparently a note JM mentioned he lazily left behind. Liq laughed at that one). When asked how he knew all of this, the weasel simply smirked with a short “I was there, kid” kind of response. He was a lackey to the minotaur himself. Like I said before, he was hired on as a sort of info-gatherer about Darkwing, to better torment him personally I guess. Makes me feel bad and wrecked up honestly, hearing something so dark. 

But, that’s besides the point.

Bulba couldn’t be there in the flesh, but JM acted as a sort of representative, just in case the whole thing turned out to be a fluke on Steelbeak’s part. The short part of it is, Darkwing fell for the trap, came to the scene, and had nothing but a second to get halfway through his first breath before he got jumped. “Yeah, I watched that guy get whooped a new one.” The weasel seemed rather proud for having brought that up, his cheeks hugging the bottom of his eyes. As if watching the morbid downfall of a hometown’s hero was something to brag about, even in a criminal world. 

When Darkwing had been bagged, so to speak, that was when the haggling began. The weasel explained that he didn’t think Steelbeak and his men would have actually gone through with the whole setup, so he had been at a bit of a loss as to what to do. “I thought about the work I had done for the guy, and remembered some low-time criminal named Jake. Gots an alligator, hides out in the sewers. Thought that was a good place to hold things until I got the boss in on it.” A flash of recollection crossed Liquidator’s face, but he never gave any input about who Jake was. For the moment, anyway. 

A few days went by, and news had already begun to spread about Darkwing’s whereabouts on the tv, media, everything. I suppose that’s what really sold the whole affair to Bulba as opposed to JM’s good soul of words. The cyborg-bull finally showed face, but JM seemed emphatic in explaining how “things went bad fast.” The minotaur played along and agreed in coming back to F.O.W.L’s good graces, up until the moment Darkwing finally came under his possession; now these words, I remember, oozed from JM’s mouth like water. “I think that was about the moment that everyone in that lair met the devil himself.” 

Bulba had begun blasting, taking the lives of a few eggmen in the process. Steelbeak, if he had valued his life even if not for his fellow man, had to scream for a retreat. And that was what they had done, with no further detail on that note from JM’s tellings. 

“That still doesn’t fully explain why I found you in my jurisdiction.” The canine flicked his flat ears impatiently. The weasel spiked a nuanced glare. “I’m getting to that!” 

If JM was being honest, he explained that Bulba had ordered him to find another lair to hideout in, one that Steelbeak and his henchmen wouldn’t bother searching for. So, like the dummy he was, the weasel began paroling through the other parts of the city underground. He had blindly stumbled upon Liquidator’s territory, had a “friendly” introduction with Spike who had likely grown bored of waddling through my greenhouse (he often liked to wander, and I had visited Liquidator enough times for him to have considered those part of the sewers home), and at some point must have ran into Liquidator. 

“Why wasn’t I told any of this!?” Much to my dismay, I was not answered by either dog nor weasel, but rather my own fuming annoyance. “I found him a place, and that’s when he cut ties with me. That’s about the end of it.” JM casted an anxious gander between the two of us. “I’m good, right? We had word, you let me go?” 

“Where is the location you speak of?” The weasel fell silent, and it nearly butchered Liquidator’s patience. “Well?” The mustelid peered between both ends of the street, as if scouting ears sought to bury him in a grave, and he pointed to that big tower in the sky. St. Canard Tower.

Me and Liquidator could only look at each other.

Herb thought it had been a rather pleasant morning; his beautiful wife was in the kitchen whipping up breakfast, Tank had been snoring (as he always had until about noon), and despite Honker’s hardships regarding the Mallards, he had been placed in better spirits as he studied for a math test. It was a good morning indeed.

Until Darkwing Duck had tried killing him. 

The typical family man had been preparing to attend to Binkie’s flowers, upon her favor, when he saw a crazed duck making his way towards him, eyes red from the recent grief Darkwing had back in the house. “Give me your keys.” His voice was dead, much like some of the weeds Herb had been pulling up. The duck held his signature gas gun, and this time, there was something in it other than air. Slowly, Herb began to raise two gloved hands. “H-Hold on there, fella…”

“I’m about five seconds from taking those clippers and busting your head with them. Give me your keys.” Muddlefoot got to his feet, dropping those suddenly cold clippers. He nearly wanted to laugh; Darkwing Duck, of all people, was holding him at gunpoint. A man who had saved Herb’s butt more than once suddenly waved the gun. Boy, wait until Binkie heard about this one. “They’re in my pocket. Y-You can be my guest, old buddy.” The shadows that grew in size from the morning’s light under the duck’s face, darkened. “Don’t call me that, either. I know what you are.”

Herb felt a lump choke his throat. “Sure…” The purple menace made his way towards him, readying his free hand to jingle into Herb’s shirt pockets; he grabbed Darkwing’s gunhand. The duck screamed, a mix of panic and death possessing him in the moment. He fired the gas gun, which blew pepper spray straight into Herb’s face. However, Herb Muddlefoot didn’t go down without a fight; Darkwing shrieked as his wrist twisted at an abhorrent angle, a deafening crack echoing through the still morning air. 

Herb’s eyes began to blur and burn, as the spray assaulted his senses. He collapsed against his wife’s precious bushes, clutching his face in unbearable agony. Darkwing raised the butt of his gun as if to strike him.

“Herb!?” Both his and the monster’s hearts dropped, but for completely diverse stories that are better left untold. Binkie stood at the front doorway, holding her mouth as she stared on in horror; she realized her mistake. Darkwing growled, a growl that transformed into an angry shriek. “COME HERE.” Mrs. Muddlefoot cried out a short burst of surprise, as she began stumbling back into the house while the purple monster gunned for her. Just as the door was an inch from closing, a pale, white hand slipped through, grabbing Binkie by her arm. “I’LL KILL YOU, I’LL KILL ALL OF YOU IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME THOSE KEYS!!” Her face grew wet with tears, as she grasped one of Tank’s baseball bats by the door (a habit she often scolded him of, but now had probably saved her life) and began bashing Darkwing’s only good hand. Distorted screaming and screeching echoed behind the wood. 

Honker’s voice broke her focus. “Mom!?” Darkwing shoved the door open with deadly force, bashing Binkie to the floor. Honker stared up at what he thought to be his best friend’s father. “I didn’t want to have to do this so soon, but you’ve both tested me.” The boy’s mother scraped at the floor, uttering cries and sobs of terror; Darkwing and Honker met eyes. 

He was whiter than snow, and that hadn’t been a compliment. It was like watching a corpse trying to pass for the living. His eyes sparked a cold menace, a gaze of someone who lost his hope long ago. The lines under his eyes had belonged to that of despair, of pain so unfathomable not even an experienced philosopher could describe it accurately. But in that face, Honker also saw hesitation, a reluctance, a regret that began to take hold of old Mr. Mallard. For a moment, he saw Drake’s comforting face again.

It died as quickly as it came, though. 

Binkie swung the bat again, and this time aimed for the head. Darkwing was a second early in catching it; if he had any later he probably would have been put into a coma by Binkie’s hand, who would have thought? He dodged it, grasped the bat’s hilt with fingers laced over Binkie’s hands, and jerked it until she fell again. He smashed the bat against the floor, near her head, just out of spite. Despite the broken bones in both hands, Mr. Mallard had swung the bat as if said bones had magically reassembled themselves. Outside, Binkie’s husband was still stumbling over her bushes, his vision still blinded by the pepper spray.

Honker didn’t know what else to do but watch, the helpless boy he was; his brother, seemingly, had other plans. Keys smashed against Darkwing’s side, and then onto the floor; the duck looked at it, sweat flicking off his beak as he turned his head to do so. Tank shuddered through trembling tears, but he stood his ground. “I’d said I’d do it! Just leave us alone!!” Darkwing was caught in the moment; a limbo between the monster he was now and the Drake Honker saw not too long ago. Drake vanished, however, and Darkwing took over once again. “You’d better.” He snatched the keys off the floor, and with one last pitiless look at the sobbing mother on the floor, he went for the garage where the family car was held, the bat dragging behind him in dark legacy. 

Honker didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. He heard the car rev a few minutes later, and skidding tires down the street, but did nothing to stop it. His mother laid plastered against the floor, drenched in her own tears, but couldn’t bring himself to comfort her; he left that to Tank. His father laid in his mother’s bushes, crying not out of terror, but of the pepper spray Darkwing attacked him with. 

It had been a rather pleasant morning indeed.

Chapter Text

While her father had been terrorizing the Muddlefoots, Gosalyn had been staring at the ceiling. Despite not having turned in until about ten in the night, she felt wide awake; most of that night had been spent tossing and turning, hearing the click and creak of the house settling in. She felt unsure of her future; she’d known for a fact that she would likely see a lot less of Honker (despite Morgana’s best efforts, down to it was just the way the cookie crumbled) and even less of Launchpad, if at all. At this point, Gos would have even taken back hanging out with that Louie kid if it meant having a friend again. 

She just hoped Launchpad would be okay, with that leg of his. Her own arm, although still sore at times, had healed up good for the most part—in partial thanks to whatever voo-doo magic Morgana tried on her recently. The witch had confided that restoration magic hadn’t been her strong suit, but the bones seemed to have set in place as if they had never been punctured. The hope of healing had been achieved, despite the witch’s worries. The same dim hope Gosalyn still held for her father. Darkwing Duck was probably out there right now, kicking the minotaur’s butt, doing everything he could just to get back home. It felt like a fantasy, but at this point, Gosalyn would believe just about anything. 

She turned her head to look at the nightstand; Archie had still been resting upon it, sleep possessing him as if it were child’s play. She wished she could be a spider, if that had been the reality of sleep for all arachnids. It was odd; the little arthropod had never left her side since her and Morgana came into the house last night, watching over her as if she were his own. It was kinda like having a dog following you around, except Archie couldn’t do squat in the face of danger other than tattle it to Morgana.  

Gosalyn felt a deep connection to him that way, though. Wasn’t that what had precisely happened to her and Honker when they found Steelbeak? Nothing but a bunch of useless kids getting in the way of the real heroes? She wondered what Honker thought of it. 

The door opened, and Gosalyn shot up. It made sense that Morgana had been the one that opened it, but the girl couldn’t help but feel it may have been someone else. The sorceress grimaced. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

The girl led out a hoarse laugh, sounding more like a middle-aged smoker than she did a child. “I wish.” The ghoul lingered in the doorway; the two emerald gazes searched the other, searching for a topic of discussion that hadn’t been about reality as they knew it. It was often rare that the two of them ever had so much alone time together, even with Drake having been gone. Gosalyn vomited up the first bout of courage. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, sleep much?” The ghoul tinted a smile, but it was like watching someone bending a fork on her face. “A little, I suppose.” Morgana itched a bit closer, but the door still allowed some draft through. “I kinda thought so…” Gosalyn threw her face back at Archie, who was blessed with something neither child nor witch could attain. “You think he’ll ever come back?” The question had been rather frank and dead in bluntness; Morgana had to blink back her startlement before replying. “Who?” Gosalyn looked up at her again, through red bangs that seemed to have dusted of patience and dreams. “Dad.”

Not that Gosalyn would have ever seen it, but the ghoul’s recent nightmares crossed the banks of her mind, Gizmoduck’s voice echoing through the thunder; Sweet mother, he’s gone mad. A deep dread began to weigh on Morgana’s heart, but considering her circumstances, she hid it rather well from sight; her eyes remained cool and collected, and her shoulders never tensed. “That is the hope, isn’t it?” 

“What if he doesn’t come back. What then?” Gosalyn never blinked, didn’t twitch a lip, and her voice droned more than it did raise a simple question. Morgana hadn’t liked it; it reminded her too much of herself at that age. When her mother-

“I wouldn’t worry so much about that. If that is the case, then we’ll deal with it as it comes.” The girl was hardly satisfied with such an ambiguous answer, but accepted it nonetheless. Again, at this point, she’d believe anything. The devil was in the details, after all. 

The ghoul settled herself next to the young girl; the two of them, for the second attempt, sitting on the same mattress. “I never did know what the Whiffle Boy business was about.” Gosalyn creased a brow, worry striking her face like a sledgehammer. “What do you mean? It got blown up, that’s all there is to it.”

Morgana couldn’t help but to laugh, despite the grave manner in which Gosalyn spoke. “No, I meant the thing itself. Not the convention but—oh what did Launchpad call it—-a video game?” The girl blinked, staring off into the rest of the bedroom. “Oh.” Another blink brought her back to the realm of conversation. “....what about it?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A video game?” The ghoul felt as if she could shrink in size; Gosalyn had returned the same kind of alien look Launchpad had given her upon the question. But ego aside, if this was something the girl was passionate about, something to get her mind off things, Morgana would happily sacrifice how her intelligence was to be viewed. “I never quite heard of something like that.” 

The girl’s eyes popped, as she hunched down, head tilted like an eager pup. “You’ve never heard of a video game!?”

“My father was often….opposed to a Normal’s way of things. I suppose I just never strayed from his upbringing.” She began to pick a knuckle, intrigued and amused by Gosalyn’s bewilderment. That fiery spirit in her was rather adorable when it bloomed out, like a small sweet flower on a dark day. “What the heck did you do!? Pick rocks as a kid!?” It took a moment before Morgana realized Gosalyn had been quite serious about that. 

“No.”

“Yes, if you had nothing better to do.”

“We did things! We played other games.” Gosalyn crossed her arms, a vacancy in expression itched across her visage. “Name one.” The ghoul remained tongue tied for a minute or so, much to the girl’s victory. But softly, a thought did spill across her mind; she smiled wickedly, and Gosalyn faltered. “Raven Claws.” 

“As if. That sounds totally fake.” 

“It’s real; you only used your hands.”

“For what.”

“This.” Gosalyn screamed, laughter growing hysterical against the walls, as the ghoul grabbed her by the sides and began the childish act of tickling the maturity off the young girl’s face. She batted at the witch’s magic fingers, but even as Morgana drew away, Gosalyn couldn’t cease the giggles that had been started. “Cheap shot.” 

Morgana would have given her own snark, but images burned across her retinas.

Darkwing Duck wielding a bat, slamming it against the floor mere inches from Binkie Muddlefoot’s head as she shrieked against the sounds of her sobs. The keys falling to the floor, the car leaving the garage. And then-

The view held loose shape, but vivid color. Dark bashing the baseball bat against Morgana’s front door, screaming and crying and bellowing pain that had been bottled to die. The door flew off the hinges, shambled at his feet. Dark stared up at her, and a smile crazed his beak. His eyes lost life, icy and cold, and his soul was simply gone. “Hey there, honeybunch.”

Another voice, not of Dark’s but one she still recalled fairly well if she were to think hard about it. “These things may yet come, Morgana. If you wish to save him, you must come to me. You must trust me, Morgana. Or you’ll never get him back. He’ll be the end of himself, you, and the girl. Morgana, Morgana-”

“Morgana!” The ghoul shivered; she felt very cold rather rapidly. She looked back down, and Gosalyn returned her frantic countenance. “What?? Who’s Nodoff?” Morgana felt her heart drop, and slowly, like a snake shedding its skin, felt it harden. “Where did you hear of that name?” Gosalyn furrowed a brow, her gaze sparking a determination to strike back. “YOU. You went quiet all of a sudden, and then said “Nodoff.” Who is it?” The ghoul held a wrist, feeling the shakes coming on, and mercilessly. “Nothing, nobody, I ... .I just remembered I left something on the stove was all.” 

Morgana. Oh, why couldn’t he just leave her alone? His voice still circulated her head, swimming through her memories like scissors flying through paper. Morgana, find me, Morgana. You’ll never get your sweet little boyfriend back if you don’t. Why couldn’t he shut up, did he have to hear himself talk so much? 

“You’re lying. I know you’re lying!” 

“Gos, please, I have a headache-”

“It’s about Dad, isn’t it? Well what, I can take it!” The young girl grabbed her by the arms with the force of a man, screeching her demands to a woman who couldn’t hear her. The ghoul yanked away, with eyes that flashed a mystic red. “Stop it!” The girl retreated like a hurt puppy, but quickly masked the oncoming tears with a face of vengeance. Morgana felt her soul crack. “Gos, please, I didn’t mean-”

“Maybe I should have chosen Launchpad.” Before Morgana could feel her next heart beat, and just as Archie began to blink the dreariness of sleep away, Gosalyn ran out the bedroom door in tears. 

The ghoul felt some bolts of electricity jump between her fingers; the rage that had consumed her could have been colossal enough to solve world hunger. If Nodoff wanted her so desperately, then oh she would more than return that favor.

He didn’t know why he did it, and he hadn’t felt good doing it. But maybe that was a good thing.

Seeing Binkie cry like that, Herb huddled against the ground as a shadow Darkwing couldn’t recognize loomed over him, casted only by the morning rays. He hadn’t known what came over him, what had possessed him to do such a horrendous act on his unsuspecting neighbors. He was a monster, a freak–

—no, they were the freaks. He needed to remember that.

But Honker….

“Doesn’t matter.” The words slipped from his beak like string through a needle hole, but they were loud enough to be heard; Darkwing jolted back from his own voice. As if he needed to say it to convince himself of anything; what was there to convince, he believed everything now, didn’t he? Didn’t he?

The apparition of pain he should have been feeling in his wrists was suddenly bleeding through, and with each janky turn of the steering wheel, he felt his pulse rushing blood to whatever war crime had been committed on them. They were horridly mangled, an observation Darkwing took note of as he had gotten into the car; he refused to look at them ever since. He hadn’t known if it had been a blessing or a curse to have branded that baseball bat the way he had, considering the condition of his hands. 

It hadn’t been on purpose, but Darkwing found himself on a familiar road, yet for some reason couldn’t quite pinpoint why. It wasn’t until he made another turn around the block, took heed of a stop sign, and-

That house. He knew that house. It was Morgana’s; a house of her taste was hard to forget. His heart flickered, his fingers tightened around the wheel despite the nerve burning pain it caused, and the still intact bat laid beside him in the passenger seat, glinting under morning’s smile. He could burn the place down, trash it, break it, kill it like how they killed-

The duck slammed the pedal to the metal; the Muddlefoot family van lurched and screamed down the road and out of that house’s gloomy shadow. He had already acted out of anger once, and what he got back were two broken wrists. There was no point in betting the rest of his luck, because as far as this gamble went, Darkwing knew he wasn’t getting his money back. 

He felt rather relieved about the decision really; there was a small voice in him, the quaintest of kinds, whispering that someone may have been in there. That someone was in there. Darkwing loved his sense of danger, but he adored his gut telling him to stay alive more. Besides, it wasn’t like he couldn’t come back for it. 

Yeah, he could come back for it. He could come back to his house too, and pick that place apart if he so desired. Pick it apart like it had been his heart, a heart he had forgotten the reassuring pulse of. Actually, why bother? He was gonna blow this whole city anyway, it would have been a waste of time. 

And with that thought, Darkwing smiled. 

Launchpad hadn’t realized how much he missed Duckburg up until he began looking out  windows; the oceanic meadows that grew up and down in jade waves, the sun dangling above frosted clouds, and the smell of Mrs. Beakley’s pastries down the halls. As much as he loved his years spent with Drake and Gosalyn, the pilot felt a bittersweetness about his old roots. 

Even so, another regret bloomed; he had left Morgana to fix whatever mess he left her with in St. Canard. Rather callous, if he let his mind wander on it, but wouldn’t it be just as so if he had done the same here? Going against McDee’s wishes, shutting him out, disappearing into the silence of sleepless nights? Which brought another worry to be weeded out.

Huey had given him rather peculiar glances; the moment Launchpad looked his way, the boy would shuffle away like a turtle trying to run a marathon. He had hurt the kid, that much was obvious, but hadn’t had a clue how. Gizmoduck had also mysteriously disappeared from sight, despite having the alibi of the old coot also tagging him along for the disappointing ride home; Fenton was around every corner though. The two had stumbled upon each other for the first time in a long time last night. 

“Fenton, my man!” Launchpad wobbled down the hall, barely keeping traction on his crutches; the accountant seemingly hadn’t heard him, so when he flicked his eyes down the hall, it was more than safe to say he was a bit surprised. However, he hadn’t seemed fazed when he realized he stood before Launchpad’s presence. He gave a tired smile. “Hey.” The pilot felt a tight blanket over his lungs, but he shoved it down like it was bad medicine. “Long time, huh?” The flare of enthusiasm quickly began to dissolve. “Boy, you don’t look good there.” Fenton hardly seemed fazed by that either; he rubbed an eye with the ball of his thumb. “Aw, it’s just some nerves is all. Been working a lot of overtime lately.” 

The pilot scoffed. “Yeah….I feel ya.” The two grew still as the discomfort settled in. “I’ve missed talking to you, you know.” Fenton didn’t blink, instead he stared on like a gargoyle who slept in stone; Launchpad almost couldn’t recognize his old friend’s face. “Have you?” Even a dumb pilot could catch there had been a forged innocence in the delivery of those two words. “Well, yeah. I mean, I can’t even remember the last time we talked. Might be adding up to a year at this point.” 

The lips on Fenton’s beak thinned. “I guess I’ve never thought about it. But you know how Mr. McDuck can get; I guess I get caught up in…..in the work.”

“Fenton?”

“Hm?”

“You sure you’re okay?” The duck finally, thankfully, did blink; he seemed caught between a breath. “Yeah! Yes, Launchpad, I’m alright. Really. I mean, I know I may not look it-” He gestured at himself in a sort of pitiless manner, smiling sourly. “-but I’m doing okay. I’m okay.” If he were so “okay,” Launchpad felt one didn’t need to repeat that to themselves. “If anything, I should….I should be asking you! You’re the one with the crutches.” 

So why hadn’t he asked him up until now?

“Heh, I guess you’ve got a point there.” The pilot hid behind a tuft of dull hair. “You just looked ... .upset about something was all.” The accountant mouthed air for words, but none came out, so that trap quickly closed. He’s being so weird with me….I guess everybody is, though.

His old friend cleared the old vocals so boisterously that the neighbors must have heard; his voice dried as he spoke further. “I heard about the whole Darkwing fiasco. I know you two were close.” Now it had been Launchpad’s turn to mouth words. “F-From McDuck, of course….I’ve just been wondering how you’ve been taking all of that.” The pilot could only shrug despite the ache that rang through his heart; it had been too long and too soon since someone asked how he had felt about something. “Not great, but I guess there’s worse things.” He flicked on a smile that quickly short-circuited. “Not sure why I’m here either; I’d rather much be back in St. Canard. Mr. McDee was who insisted.” 

Fenton gave no response, in fact he paid no mind. He gave a small swipe of his hand as if to wave a fly, a fly that pestered him too often. “Yeah, I need to go.” Launchpad gripped his crutches, as his back vibrated a hum of dismay. “Oh man, so soon?” He failed to hide the obvious hurt in his voice, but better yet to his luck, the accountant either didn’t care or didn’t hear. Perhaps a bit of both. “I’ll catch you later, Launchpad.” 

“Yeah…okay.” His words tankered out into a now empty hallway, and Launchpad was only left wondering if he had done something. The fear that he may have lost one of the only close friends he had left in this miserable little world. 

“Mr. McDuck, you can be so arrogant at times! You hardly gave him a choice.” 

“And that’s the way it’s going to stay. That paper-for-brains gets in too deep of trouble than what’s good for him.” Mrs. Beakley’s knuckles turned white as she pushed more grip into the handles of the laundry basket. “His friend is missing; he isn’t asking for trouble.”

“Aye, but he is.” The old duck leaned forward over his desk, eyes accusatory. “Or have ye forgotten that broken foot he’s got?” The maid finally released the basket she had been carrying, letting it pronounce a thump against Scrooge’s floors. “That’s hardly fair, and if anything, you should be thanking him; why I couldn’t even imagine what would have happened to the boys. And the girl, he should have brought her with! Webby would have loved her.” 

“Mrs. Beakley, I hardly ever have time for your nonsense, and I certainly don’t now.” Despite his spite, Scrooge leaned back in his office chair, looking rather smug of himself; Mrs. Beakley might have seen red, but she didn’t show it well enough. Instead, she stood there, complacently defiant, not reaching for the basket nor heading for the door. “Why did you bring him back?” 

Scrooge’s gaze clouded, as he trailed it to his hands that hugged each other rather tightly than what must have been comfortable. “He’d be asking for trouble if I had let him stay in that city. He’s safer here, with me—with us.” He may have been satisfied with that broken thought, but Mrs. Beakley certainly wasn’t. “And what of the people he had to leave behind? Do they not matter?”

Scrooge caught memory of the woman, the woman in red, arguing with Launchpad on that street. He caught sight of tears, as that little girl clung to his old pilot like he had been her only lifeline. Launchpad had insisted that the child wasn’t his, and that he wasn’t involved with any sort of woman, but they had meant something to him nonetheless; even an idiot could see that. Mrs. Beakley had made a bleak point, and Scrooge hated it; he glared at her, pupils hovering over dirty spectacles. “I’ll see you out, Mrs. Beakley.”

“Mr. Scrooge-”

“I’ll see you out, Mrs. Beakley.” The maid huffed, snatching the basket up lazily, and headed to the door, but not without her head tilted high. “Ruffian” was all that was said before that door closed again. Scrooge was left with himself, and the regrets of decisions he had to make. He tapped a finger on a knuckle, staring at where Beakley had made her exit; Launchpad circled his mind like an aircraft making its round trips, down to the buzzing of the engine. 

Even if it wasn’t the whole truth, Scrooge never lied. After that disaster at the convention, he couldn’t risk leaving an old friend behind in that mess, even if that friend was an uttering dope. That, and he had been honestly worried about Launchpad; the ongoing ringing of the phone, the disappearance of letters as time went on, the feeling that Launchpad had just left behind everything, to dust and deteriorate and be forgotten between Duckburg’s city lines. Scrooge was angry, but more importantly, he was hurt. 

And to think it had all been for this Darkwing character, someone Scrooge often heard about, (typically when the guy screwed up something more than he did bring justice to it) but was still a stranger in his eyes. He’d see the face a few times, but he’d always forget it. The more he thought about it, though, the more the startlement began to melt; Launchpad, of all people, would be one to run off with some purple loon. He’d be asking for trouble if I had let him stay in that city. But it wasn’t the city that was the trouble, really; Darkwing Duck was the root of all distress, and staying in the city where the duck’s cape was laid was bound to make someone bleed somewhere. 

Yet, it had happened already. At the Whiffle Boy convention. And it only seemed to be the beginning of something just as horrible. 

For another odd reason, a gut feeling he supposed, Scrooge had felt Launchpad’s lost “friend” would be the very center of it all. 

“What makes youse think I’d know anything?” The bear loomed over him like a dying tree, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights and the horrors witnessed earlier that day. “You were at scene.”

“Not that one.”

“But it was where Darkwing was, you do know something so out with it!” Agent Gryzlikoff slammed two huge paws against the table, the lamp above the two men swinging as the sound vibrated up the walls and into its hanging electrical cord. “A typical family, attacked in their own home. Why? Car theft it seems. But I know that regulation-breaking maniac; he’s after something.” He bared fangs, rotting breath slipping from his lips. “And you know something about it.” 

Despite being held captive, Steelbeak had been rather content in his situation; his leg was crossed over his other lap tiredly, with hands gently held together at the knee; he watched the grumpy bear fuss over his case, and he smiled. “Really?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, I dunno know about that, big fella.” The bear yanked the rooster by the collar, and the two began to stare lovingly into one another’s eyes. “Justice Ducks said you look for Taurus Bulba, our biggest enemy. Darkwing’s biggest enemy. Why?”

“Get a mint, pal.” The rooster yelped as he was thrown against the floor, the table that had been a wall between them now crashing down with him; the light turned spastic, shadows dancing and disappearing as the lamp swayed back and forth above them. Gryzlikoff drew a long, vicious growl. “I do not play games. You talk, or I’ll rip it out of you.” His accent grew so thick, for a moment, Steelbeak could hardly catch what the threat was, but based on how deadly those teeth look, he could take a wild guess. 

“Look, I don’t know anything ‘bout you’re dunce, huh? I came for one t’ing, you were right, but I couldn’t care less if Darkwing was drowned in a lake somewhere.” The rooster flexed his fingers against the cold hard ground, as the bear salivating above him ruminated in thought. “What was High Command’s order.”

“Aw, come on toots; ya know I can’t say nothing.”

“You can, and you will.” Steelbeak’s beak went cold metal. “Even if I could tattle, they’d have my head first. So, kindly and emphatically, no.” The bear began to pace, his eyes hungrily gouging through the suave rooster’s head, gruffing and huffing like a moose in heat. Finally, he paused, and all went deathly still. It was clear this tango wasn’t over, far from it, but it didn’t mean S.H.U.S.H’s goons couldn’t toy with him in the meantime, Steelbeak supposed.

“Fine. But if blood is shed by Darkwing Duck’s hands, innocent blood, I’ll be sure yours flows with it.” 

Not long after JM’s long winded story, I screamed out of my skin when I felt hands grip my shoulders. I released Spike, who had now been too occupied attempting to maul the weasel to really mind my safety. I whipped around, slugging a fist to whatever face breathed at my neck; Megavolt’s apathetic countenance was who greeted me. He batted my leafy hand away, with a Bucky-Beaver loving smirk. “You call that a punch, Veggie?” I felt shame begin to burn my face, and I drew away in a curtain of humiliation. “Don’t do that!” JM’s screams snapped me back to reality faster than gravity. 

Liquidator (what a surprise) stood at the sidelines, admiring the gladiator show between plant and mustelid; I man-handled my stubborn little friend, as JM stumbled into a half-run. I would have stopped him, if it hadn’t been for Megavolt’s sudden and ugly appearance. “Now look at what you did; you always let them get away!” I swung back around, attempting what I had hoped to be a glare in the rat’s direction; he dressed an unamused frown. “What do you want anyway, I thought you quit on us.”

“I did.”

“...and?”

“I realized I’d rather be with you guys than dead under Negaduck.” For some reason, there seemed to be a grave weight to those words than what would have been of a typical Megavolt.